


Take Me Home

by ratherastory



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Tricksters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:58:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 53,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Trickster decides to have some fun with Sam and turns him into a dog. It's all fun and tennis balls at first, until Dean gets hurt and Sam gets lost...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note #1: No beta, written in such a hurry I'm amazed my fingers managed to connect with the keyboard.  
> Neurotic Author's Note #2:I take NO responsibility for this, because it's cracky and odd and I can't believe it came out of of my brain. If you are scarred for life after reading it, it's NOT my fault!  
> Neurotic Author's Note #3: It's basically "Lassie Come-Home," Winchester-style. I dunno. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!  
> Neurotic Author's Note #4: Believe it or not, the fic actually turned serious on me about 2/3 of the way through. I got nothin'.

Sam is sick to death of angels. Sick of angels, demons, the apocalypse, the whole nine yards. So now he's in a shopping mall with Dean, trying to sort through a giant mess of a case, but at least it's a regular case, a break from all the end-of-the-world crap that's hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. He's beginning to understand Dean's obsession with finding “normal” cases, the paranormal equivalent of two-point-five kids, a dog, and a white picket fence in the suburbs. So this case, in which people started dying in weird and creative ways, seemed like the way to go for a while.

Of course, it's a gigantic mess now: nothing about it makes any sense, because none of the deaths seem related except for the fact that they're all in the same mall, none of it hangs together, and whatever is responsible has a sick sense of humour. There's no wishing well in town, so it's not that. It's enough to make Sam wonder if they haven't stumbled across faeries, except that he's only ever heard of faeries in really old textbooks, and the odds are pretty slim. Faeries stick to the woods, not to shopping malls. In fact, if Sam didn't know better, he'd think it was some sort of ironic commentary on American consumer culture. Still, it 's a way to take their minds off all the death, all the suffering, the weight that's pressing down on them. Also, it takes them away from all the freaking angels, and Sam hasn't been this pleased to be doing something in months, possibly years at this point. Right now, the word “angel” is his least favourite in the dictionary.

Sure, there was a time when he prayed every day, at first, the way normal people do. Pastor Jim explained about prayer when Sam was very small, and it seemed like a great idea at the time: to appeal to a higher power for help, for guidance, and sometimes for a puppy (when he was five years old). Then as he grew older he prayed for a whole lot of things: for Dean, for his father, to get him out of hunting (please, God). The last few years, the prayers were more desperate: please, God, don't let Dean die. Please, God, give me back my brother. Please God. Please please please.

Then Sam met his first angel, and the angel looked at him as though he was something to be scraped off its shoe, didn't even want to touch him. Sam never felt so filthy in his life, tainted and sick and disgusting. He hasn't prayed in over a year now, stopped the praying the day the angels told Dean to go into a locked room and torture a demon. He's given up thinking that maybe angels are the way he first imagined them. Dean is right, they are douchebags. Meddling, sadistic pricks who don't actually care about God's creations at all. Between Uriel, Zachariah and Lucifer, Sam has had enough angels to last him a lifetime. Castiel is going a long way to earning back Dean's trust (if he ever even lost it), but he still won't come near Sam unless he absolutely has to, and so Sam avoids him as much as he can.

And speaking of sadistic douchebags, Sam has reserved a special place in his heart for Gabriel, whom he's known for so long only as “The Trickster.” He's pretty sure he hates him even more than Lucifer. Lucifer, at least, has tried to make nice to Sam in his own weird, twisted way. Sure, it's all a trick to seduce him into becoming a cheap suit, but at least it's a real attempt to seduce. Gabriel, on the other hand, has been going out of his way from the start to make Sam's life even more of a living hell than it already was.

It seems like his reasoning follows the same patterns: Dean is going to die? Awesome. You know what would be fun? Making Sam live his death over and over. Even more fun? Making Sam live without him for six extra months, just to see what will happen. For shits and giggles. You know what else is fun? Making him argue with Dean. Shoving them both into a make-believe TV land and tormenting them until they both decide to say “yes” to playing angel condom, because boo-hoo, little Gabriel wants his angelic brethren to get their little apocalypse over with. Gabriel, Sam has decided, is the worst coward of the lot: hiding behind his tricks and his pranks and his sadistic douchebaggery. Fucker.

“Oh, come now, I'm not _that_ bad!”

Sam straightens up from where he's been looking at the statue of an overweight man, complete with dirty jeans and black t-shirt from Think Geek, XBox controller held in a death grip. It's a wax effigy, except that not five hours ago he was alive and well and arguing vociferously with someone else in the store about how lame the new reboot of Star Trek was.

“I knew it,” Sam is resigned. Can't bring himself to be surprised. “You're way too fond of irony for your own good.”

“What can I say? It's an appealing trope,” Gabriel smirks, hops up to sit on a glass display case full of Wii's and iPods, his short legs dangling ludicrously. He's wearing a really garish shirt, all big prints and loud colours, a leather bomber jacket over it, his hair slicked back with what might be water but looks more like Brillcreem.

“The Fonz called. He wants his wardrobe back.”

Gabriel pretends to be wounded. “Oh, Sam, always with the _bon mot_.”

“What do you want?”

“What, I can't just have some fun now and then? I'm taking care of some colossal assholes who think that their possessions are more important than their lives.” Gabriel crosses his legs, folds his arms across his chest, smirks at him. He looks around. “I've always hated malls. Let's take this little pow-wow outside, shall we?”

He snaps his fingers, and suddenly they're outside, Gabriel perched on the hood of the Impala instead of the counter. Sam straightens, rubs the back of his neck, tries to remember where he left Dean.

“Dean will kill you for doing that to his car.”

“He's welcome to try. I don't foresee him pulling holy oil out of your ass any time soon.” Sam snorts.

“You know what? I don't care. I know there's nothing we can do to stop you. Was there some new and interesting form of torture you wanted to inflict on me this week? How about skipping the preliminaries this time and just making me insane right off the bat?”

“Such a drama queen. I'm amazed Dean has put up with you for so long. That's the trouble, isn't it? That he puts up with you, I mean. Big brother, always looking out for little Sammy, no matter what kind of shit you pull. He's the soul of forgiveness, isn't he?”

Sam's fists clench at his side. “Just... shut up, would you? You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, I think I do. It's pathetic, really, how you have no life outside of him. Sure, you made a big show of going off on your own, going to Stanford, getting a girl, but you hopped right back into the life with alacrity, didn't you, Sammy-boy? Followed wherever big brother led you. And look what happened when he died, the way we all knew he would: you imploded.” Sam feels heat creeping up his neck, suffusing his cheeks. “Self-destructed so fast I almost got whiplash. Addiction is so _cliché_ , too, although I will credit you with putting a creative spin on it by unleashing the apocalypse in the process. And then Dean forgave that too.”

Which just goes to show what Gabriel knows. Dean hasn't forgiven him, not by a long shot. Hell, there's no forgiveness for any of what he's done. “Just... whatever it is you're going to do, can we get it over with?” he asks finally, feeling his shoulders slump. He's tired of arguing with angels. Tired of arguing with Dean, for that matter. Just tired.

Gabriel sulks. “You're no fun at all. I'm trying to impart a lesson here, chucklehead, and for once I was trying to do it without resorting to reshaping reality around you.” When Sam doesn't answer, he sighs. “You may not believe this, but I like you, Sam.” Sam snorts derisively at that, and Gabriel holds up a hand. “No, really. You kind of remind me of me, only without the brilliant sense of humour and the impeccable fashion sense. And I'm really sick of watching you trail after your brother like a kicked dog. You're holding each other back, you know. You need to both let go, and follow your destinies.”

“Haven't we already had this discussion?” Sam is getting a headache.

“And look how well that turned out. I was hoping you'd listen to me this time, instead of digging in your heels. You think your brother appreciates having to drag you around on a leash all the time? Or has he taught you to walk to heel yet?” there's scorn in the angel's voice now, and Sam feels his temper snap.

“Shut up.”

A sigh. “I can see this isn't going anywhere. Fine. Don't say I didn't try being reasonable first.”

Gabriel reaches out and, in a gesture that reminds Sam oddly of Castiel, pokes two fingers against his forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. And everything goes dark.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Zombies. Straight out of a Romero triple-feature. Slow and shambling and wearing really terrible 1970s clothes. There are only two of them, though, and after two spectacular head shots (he ought to get a prize, but since when is life ever fair that way?) Dean is by himself in an abandoned clothing outlet. Surrounded by jeans, halter tops, and two decomposing corpses that just literally tried to eat his flesh. It's actually kind of awesome. Except for the flesh-eating part: that was gross. He checks to make sure there aren't any more undead lurking behind the display racks, finds a corpse that looks like it's been snacked on, and he puts a bullet through its forehead just to be on the safe side. All things considered, he thinks that whatever is going on, it's not actually about the zombie apocalypse, and that's a good thing: they've already got one apocalypse to deal with, two just feels like overkill.

He conducts a sweep of the store, then just outside the door. “It feels like Half-Life 2,” he says to no one in particular. Speaking of which, he hasn't heard from Sam since he headed off into the electronics store. He glides down the deserted hallway, thankful at least that when the dying started in earnest someone had the good sense to evacuate the mall. The electronics store is dark, half the lights out for some reason. It's also deserted, except for one guy who looks like he belongs in a wax museum for the chronically lame and nerdy.

“Sam?” He pokes around in the aisles, finds Sam's pack, but no sign of Sam. “Sammy? You in here?” Nothing. He pulls out his cell, dials Sam's number, is rewarded by the sound of Sam's pack ringing shrilly, with the same ring tone he programmed into it a couple of months ago. Sam pretended to be annoyed that he programmed The Muppet Show theme as a ringtone, but Dean can't help but notice that he hasn't changed it yet. Which doesn't solve his more immediate problem of his baby brother being AWOL.

He picks up the bag, starts a more systematic sweep of the mall, getting a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Sam!”

Still nothing. The bookstore is empty (first place to check for Sam), although there's a woman who's become a permanent display case for Oprah's book club, which makes him shudder. He's never watching that show again. The food court is empty, and he helps himself to a still-warm burger (hey, a guy has needs) before moving onto the next place, but eventually he has to reconcile himself to the idea that there's no one here. There are only two floors to this building, it's not that big: a small joint in a podunk town. So the next logical step is to try outside. Sam can't be far, that much is obvious. Sam wanted back into hunting, he's been acting like Dean's freaking shadow ever since Dean got back from the future (and wow, it hurts his head even to say that), and he is definitely not sneaking off to get a fix, or whatever. Ruby's dead, there's been no sign of demon activity, and Dean is definitely, definitely not thinking any thoughts like that because they've put all that shit behind them.

“Sammy!”

The parking lot is all but deserted, but he catches sight of a familiar figure leaning up against the Impala, and his heart drops into his stomach. “Get away from my baby, you prick!”

Gabriel shakes his head, clucks his tongue. He doesn't move from where he is, and instead leans over to scratch behind the ears of a large dog sitting at his feet. What is it with this guy and dogs, anyway? “Tsk, temper temper, Dean-o. Hypertension is the silent killer, you know.”

Dean feels his fists clench, his teeth grind together. This is going to cost him a fortune in dental work, if he ever survives the apocalypse. “Are you here to lecture me on how to take care of my arteries?”

There's a derisive snort. “Far be it for me to take your cheeseburgers away. I see you haven't given up that habit either. Well, maybe you'll have a heart attack or a stroke before the apocalypse: seems like as viable a plan as any other you've ever come up with. I hear petting animals is good for your blood pressure,” he pats the dog's head.

“Nice dog,” Dean says, since the situation seems to call for it. It is a nice dog, as far as he can tell. He doesn't know much about them, but this one looks big and healthy, its black coat glossy, big hazel eyes staring at him. He didn't know dog's eyes came in that colour. It has a long feathered tail, which thumps on the ground in greeting, its tongue lolling from its mouth. “What happened to the small yappy one?”

“I still have him, but I left him at home. He doesn't like you.”

“How many dogs do you have, anyway?” Dean feels like the conversation has taken a turn for the surreal, but can't quite help himself.

“Enough. You like shepherds?”

Dean blinks. “Uh... yeah, I guess. I like dogs, they're fine. Don't have much use for 'em in my line of work, but yeah. Dogs're nice. Have you been smoking up?” he asks, tilting his head a bit.

“Don't need to. Life is a natural high.”

Dean feels a tension headache coming on. “Do you know where Sam is?”

“I might.”

“Did you do something to him?”

Gabriel manages to look injured. “Why do you always assume that I've done something?”

“Because you always do?”

“Fair enough. Look, it's not my problem you lost your brother. Maybe you shouldn't be trying to keep him on such a close leash anyway. Look what happened the last time you tried keeping tabs on him as though he was your —well, your pet dog instead of your brother.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Metaphor, yes, I get it. Look, are you here to do something ironic and whatever, or just to play peanut gallery?”

Gabriel shrugs, and his eyes sparkle with poorly-concealed amusement. “I like the peanut gallery. The snacks are excellent, and provide me with endless ballistic opportunities. But since you're not in a listening mood, I guess I'll just leave you to your search.” He snaps his fingers, disappears. Dean gets the feeling that the finger-snapping is pretty much just for show.

“Hey, you forgot your—” but Gabriel is long gone, “dog,” he finishes lamely. “Terrific.” He stares at the dog, which is sitting with its head cocked to one side, staring at him. “Hey, boy,” Dean returns the stare, then ducks his head, checking. “Yep, definitely a boy. Your master is a douche, just so you know. I know you've got the whole unflinching loyalty thing going for you, but you'd be better off putting your trust elsewhere.” He's talking to a dog. Awesome. He's obviously further gone than he thought. “You haven't seen my brother, have you? He's, like, eight feet tall, in serious need of a haircut, and looks like I'm about to kick him most of the time these days. Answers to Sam.”

The dog wags its tail. Thump-thump-thump against the asphalt.

“No? Didn't think so.” Dean heaves a long-suffering sigh. It's not really like Sam to up and disappear in the middle of a case —not recently, anyway— and he left all his gear behind, and Dean is trying very hard not to get worried just yet. There could be any number of explanations for this, none of which are particularly reassuring if he thinks about it for too long. “All right. I gotta go look for him.”

He dumps Sam's stuff in the trunk, keeps hold of the cell phone just in case, pulls the map of the area out of the glove compartment and spreads it out on the hood of the Impala. The dog settles at his feet with a whuffing noise, lays its muzzle on its forepaws. It's not a big town, so he figures he can go looking in concentric circles, stay on foot for the time being, to make sure he doesn't drive right by Sam if he's, say, passed out somewhere outside.

“He can't be far, right?” he says to the dog. “I mean, supposing he hasn't been zapped somewhere by angels, but so far that's only been my problem. Angels don't like zapping Sam anywhere if they can help it. All right,” he folds up the map, tucks it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “See you around, boy.”

He heads purposefully toward the entrance of the mall, figures he'll use that as a starting point, work his way around. To his surprise, the dog instantly gets to its feet and trots behind him, feathered tail held high behind it. He turns, makes a shooing motion.

“You can't come with me. Go find Gabriel. Go on, git!”

The dog stops, tail drooping, and whines at him.

“No, I mean it. I have to look for Sam.”

The dog whines again, gives a hopeful wag of its tail, and he sighs.

“Are you at least a good tracker?”

The dog cocks its head at him, both ears perked.

“I didn't think so. Well, come on, then.” There's a joyous bark, and the dog bounds to his side, tail wagging enthusiastically. “Why couldn't Gabriel have abandoned a bloodhound?” he grumbles. “I don't have any sheep for you to herd, you know.”

The search goes badly. He spends three hours making his way around the mall, through the streets, checking with every passer-by and shop owner he can find, but no one has seen hide nor hair of Sam. It's like he's fallen off the face of the planet, and by now Dean is hard-pressed not to lose his shit. He calls Bobby, for lack of any better idea, but Bobby doesn't have anything helpful to add either. So he keeps looking until the sun sets and it gets too dark to look properly. He heads back to the car, lets himself sink onto the bumper, head in his hands.

“Shit shit shit, fuck!”

The dog is still there, has been literally dogging his heels all afternoon and evening. It whines, picking up on his mood, shoves its nose into his ribcage.

“I've lost him. What the hell kind of lousy brother am I, that I can't even keep track of Sam when he's a hundred yards away?” he asks the dog. “Some hunter I'm turning out to be. Can't do anything right.”

Predictably enough, the dog doesn't have an answer, and there's nothing left but to head back to the motel. There's a good chance Sam will head back to the room now that they've been separated for so many hours. He pushes himself to his feet, pulls open the door, and nearly gets knocked off his feet as the dog barrels past him and settles into the shotgun seat.

“Oh, no you don't!” he leans into the car, makes a grab for the dog. “That's the original leather, you flea-ridden mutt! Get off there!” He tugs fruitlessly at the dog, realizes that it's a lot bigger and a lot heavier than he thought at first. It gives him a shit-eating doggy grin, the furry bastard, and flops onto the seat, tongue hanging out. “We are not going for a car ride,” he informs it sternly. “I don't care how cute you are.” He goes around the car, yanks open the passenger-side door, and tries to haul out the dog, only to meet with a hundred-odd pounds of very determined canine resistance. “Come on! Son of a bitch,” he stops, stares at the dog. “I don't have time for this. Fine, come with me, then, but you can't stay. And don't drool on the upholstery, or so help me I will kick your furry ass out of the car while it's still running.”

He drives back to the motel, the dog panting happily in the seat next to him, grumbles to himself under his breath about becoming a pushover in his old age. If Sam is there, he'll never let him live down being bullied by a creature that habitually drinks out of the toilet. God, he hopes Sam is there. His life is stressful enough as it is. He unlocks the motel room, turns to order the dog to stay, or whatever, but it's already too late: the dog has wormed its way through his legs and is in the room. He shakes his head, knows when he's defeated. If nothing else, it shows that it's Gabriel's dog: stubborn, and bent on driving him nuts.

“Sam! Sammy, you here?” There's no answer, but the dog is back at his feet, its tail wagging so hard it's practically a blur of motion. He switches on the light, scans the room for signs that Sam may have come and gone, but there are none. “Sam!” The dog cavorts around him, play-snapping at the air, and he reaches down and pats it absentmindedly, dumps his gear on the floor.

He checks his phone messages, but apart from a single text message from Bobby (and the thought of Bobby sending text messages still amuses him to no end) saying that he's checking in with some contacts to see if there's been any indication of weirdness or disappearances in the area, there's nothing. There's nothing on the motel phone either, which he checks out of principle rather than because he really thinks Sam would have left a message there. He sinks down on his bed —the one closest the door, as usual— clasps his hands between his knees, feeling his heart clench in his chest. For the first time, he wonders what he'll do if he can't find Sam, and the thought sends shivers of panic through him.

“Dammit, Sam, where are you?”

There's a blur of motion, and before he can so much as flinch the dog has launched itself at his chest. It bowls him backward on the bed and straddles him, soft pink tongue lapping at his face, giving him the most thorough licking he's ever received in his life. He sputters, shoves at it, tries to twist away.

“Ack! Get off! That's... ptuh! That's seriously gross, dude. I only kiss girls on the lips. Get off!”

The dog doesn't budge, but it stops licking him. He's stuck, spreadeagled on the bed with a hundred pounds of dog on his chest. It shoves its nose into his face, fixes him with an intense gaze, the weird-coloured hazel eyes seemingly waiting for him to do something, or maybe say something. For the second time that day it occurs to him that he's never seen a dog with eyes that colour, and if it's a black dog, shouldn't it have brown eyes? He blinks at it.

No. It can't be.

“Sam?”

The dog barks once, and licks the tip of his nose.

Oh, shit.

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Come again?” Bobby's tone is incredulous, and Dean can't blame him. This one is weird, even by Winchester standards.

“It's the only thing that makes sense, Bobby,” he says, watching the dog as it sniffs its way around the edges of the room, taking in everything as though for the first time. Well, it sort of is the first time, he supposes. “It —he— even answers to his name. Hey, Sam!” he snaps his fingers.

The dog perks up its ears, comes trotting over, and he gives it a friendly scritch behind the ears as a reward, earning himself a tail-wagging.

“Are you sure you didn't fall on that fool head of yours, boy?”

“I'm sure, Bobby. One minute I'm fighting off the horde from Dawn of the Dead while Sam is dealing with Night at the Museum in reverse, or whatever, and the next thing I know he's gone and that damned trickster is back in the game. Or angel, or whatever he is.”

“It don't make a lick of sense. Why would he turn your brother into a dog?”

“Beats me. He did go on for a while about my keeping Sam on too short a leash, so maybe he decided to make it literal? Anyway, it doesn't matter. What matters is turning him back. This is seriously too weird for me. My brother is a _sheepdog_ , Bobby.” He pauses. “Are you laughing?”

It sounds suspiciously like Bobby is sniggering. “'Course not. It ain't a laughing matter, is it?”

“Dammit, Bobby, this isn't funny!”

Okay, Bobby is definitely laughing. It sounds as though he's got his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, but a few seconds later he gives up all pretense, and Dean can hear him guffawing on the other end, hand over the receiver to muffle the sound.

“Bobby!”

The dog —Sam, he reminds himself— puts its front paws up on his knees, shoves its head into his face. On the other end of the line, Bobby pulls himself together, still giggling.

“Okay, I'm sorry. You gotta admit, it's pretty funny.”

“Hilarious.”

“You're sure it's Sam?”

Dean shrugs, even though Bobby can't see him. “As sure as I can be. It's not like he can answer me in any way that I can understand. He's a dog.”

“Does he know what's happened?”

He shoves the dog back onto the floor, fondles its ears, and it leans into the touch, tail thumping. “I don't think so. I mean, I think he knows he's Sam, but I think he's really a dog, too. I mean, he's all happy and tail-waggy and shit. Sam hasn't been this cheerful in, well, ever.” The realization depresses him. He addresses the dog. “You know you're Sam, right?”

The dog barks once.

“I think that's about as much of an answer as I'm ever going to get directly from the horse's mouth. Or the dog's mouth, or whatever.”

Bobby snorts and sounds like he's perilously close to another fit of hysterical laughter. “Okay. Why don't you haul your asses down here, and we'll figure it out. Although I don't need to tell you, boy, that if this is an angel's doing, even if it's just Gabriel, it's going to be damn near impossible to fix unless he wants you to do it.”

“I know,” he rubs his hand over his face. It smells doggy. “I just... God. How does this kind of stuff even happen to us? What am I supposed to do with him in the meantime?”

“He's your brother. Figure something out. At least dogs like to ride in cars.”

Dean lets himself flop backward on the bed with a groan, tosses the cell phone next to his watch and his wallet on the night stand. The dog —Sam, he tells himself again, still can't quite wrap his mind around it— prowls along the walls, determined to explore every inch of baseboard, it seems. It shoves its nose in the salt line over the threshold, sneezes, shakes its head, looks up with that endearing doggy grin, and he finds himself grinning back at it.

“At least you're a happy dog. Are you sure you're my emo little brother? There's no way he'd ever let himself be that content. He's all broody and angsty, usually. I figure if he were to turn into a dog he's be one of those dogs with droopy ears and sad eyes. Maybe you're not Sam, maybe you're just some dog named Sam that that freaking trickster left behind just to mess with my head.”

The dog cocks its head to the side, sits on its haunches and watches him.

“Do you understand me when I talk? Bark once for 'yes,' twice for 'no.'”

It's possible that that's the stupidest thing he's ever said, he realizes as soon as the words have left his mouth. The dog barks twice, and he has to restrain himself from hitting his head against the wall as hard as he can.

“You're doing it on purpose to screw with me now, aren't you?”

The dog barks once.

“Fuck you, Sparky.”

The dog barks twice, and then someone hammers furiously on the wall from the room next door. “Shut the fuck up in there!”

He pounds the wall back. “Shut up yourself!” He turns to —Sam. His brain stutters over the name, can't match it to the body. “Okay, no more barking unless we want to get kicked out. I don't know if we're even allowed animals in here.” He stares at the dog, throws up his hands. “You know what? I'm not dealing with this tonight. Maybe we'll luck out and it's a twenty-four hour thing, and you'll be back to normal tomorrow. What kind of dog are you, anyway? I know Gabriel said shepherd, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down. You don't look like a German shepherd, and you're definitely not Lassie. Mind if I borrow your laptop?”

The dog makes a resigned whuffing noise, shuffles over and drops at his feet as he pulls the laptop onto his knees and starts searching. Eventually he finds a couple of images on Google that look about right.

“Looks like you're a Belgian Shepherd. It figures you'd be some sort of froofy European breed.” The dog just gives him a reproachful look. “Nice-looking dog, though. Says here you're supposed to be good with kids but that you need lots of exercise. Not that I'm anticipating taking you for long walks, or whatever, so you can forget it.”

The dog's ears perk up at that, and he sighs. No saying the “w” word in front of the dog, copy that. He shuts the laptop, shucks his clothes and tosses them on a chair. There's nothing to do now except sleep it off and hope it's all some sort of really weird dream that he'll never, ever mention to Sam, except to tease him for being turned into a fluffy European dog. He crawls under the bedclothes, pulls them up to his chin, reaches over to switch off the light, when the whole bed lurches to the side, swaying alarmingly.

“Oh, no! I am not sharing the bed with a dog. You can either take the other bed, or sleep on the floor like a normal dog.”

A moment later he's got a face full of dog, its tongue working over him enthusiastically.

“Gah! Get off!” he shoves at it ineffectually, and is definitely beginning to sense a pattern here. “Fine, fine! You can sleep on the bed. Just not on top of me, got it? Jeez, give a guy some space here, mutt.”

The dog chuffs happily, flops down by his legs with an ominous creak of bedsprings. He switches off the light and lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of its tail against the bedspread. A few moments later it heaves a sigh of contentment, the tail stops wagging, and the only sound to be heard in the room is its soft breathing. He lets his eyes slip closed, unable to worry overmuch with the comforting weight of the dog leaning against his leg, drifts to sleep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dean is awakened the next morning by something cold and wet being thrust right under his chin. He snorts and flails, can't quite get his bearings for a moment, and suddenly finds himself face to face with a black muzzle. It all comes back to him in a rush, and he groans.

“Still not back to normal, I see?”

The dog gives a desperate-sounding whine, then trots over to the door and scratches at it with one paw. Dean glances at the clock, realizes that it's stupidly early.

“I guess when you gotta go, you gotta go,” he mutters, and staggers to the door. He feels like he went on a bender the night before, complete with a nasty taste on his tongue, but alas it looks like he was completely sober and didn't imagine his little brother getting turned into Rin-Tin-Tin. He opens the door. “Out you go. And no, I'm not coming with you. Our relationship is plenty weird and awkward enough without my accompanying you while you... go do your thing,” he flaps a hand vaguely in the direction of the outdoors. “I'll leave the door open. Find some trees or someone's lawn, or something. I'll wait here. And don't you dare piss on my baby!” he yells at the last minute at Sam's retreating hindquarters.

He waits until Sam gets back, trotting slowly, tail held high, shuts the door and draws the chain again. Sam jumps on the bed turns around a few times before letting himself fall with a whump and a contented sigh.

“I'm hitting the shower, and then we're out of here. We're going to Bobby's, and it's not like it's next door from here. Why couldn't you wait until we were close to South Dakota before pissing off an archangel?”

He doesn't wait for an answer, shuts the door to the bathroom behind him and runs the shower as hot as he can stand it, his stomach twisting strangely. It's hard to muster the same levels of panic as when Sam is missing or injured: he's here, and he's fine, or as fine as he can be under the circumstances, but it's still all sorts of wrong. Dean is out of his depth here, and he knows it. This isn't something he can shoot or stab or salt and burn. It's just Sam, and some serious angelic mojo. He's pulling on his clothes, thankful for small mercies that the dog isn't watching him —'cause that would be way too weird— when his cell phone rings.

“Dean?”

“Cas, this isn't a good time,” he struggles for balance, trying to pull on his jeans while holding the phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

“It is important.”

“It's always important —it's the damned apocalypse. When is anything you call about not important?”

“Never.”

He smacks the wall with his fist, forces himself to clamp down on his frustration. “What is it?”

“Where are you?”

“West Virginia,” he reads off the name and address of the motel from the pad of paper on the bedside table, and before he's even had time to shut off his phone, Castiel is standing next to him, disconcertingly close. He jumps. “Cas! How many times do we need to have the 'personal space' discussion?”

“I apologize,” Castiel takes two steps back. “I am not always able to gauge small distances accurately while you are hidden from my sight.”

Dean stares at him. “You better not ever land on top of me.”

“I assure you that will not be the case,” Cas is looking around the room curiously. “Where is Samuel?”

Dean heaves a sigh, motions to the bed. “Right there.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side in that vaguely constipated-looking way he has when the ways of humans have flummoxed him. “I don't understand. Why is Samuel a dog?”

At least he didn't have to explain the dog part. Must be some form of angelic x-ray vision. Or maybe it's just that Cas never seems to question anything Dean tells him, which is disturbing in its own right. “I don't know. The best I can figure is that Gabriel's using us for his own twisted amusement again.”

“Gabriel was here?”

“Well, not here-here, but yeah,” Dean flaps a hand vaguely. “Made cryptic remarks about dogs, and the next thing I know Sam here is the star for a Puppy Chow commercial. I'm taking him to Bobby's, see if we can fix it. I don't suppose there's anything you can do?” he looks up, allowing himself to hope for a split-second that even fallen angel mojo might be able to work on this, bring Sammy back to his old self, but Castiel shakes his head.

“I am sorry. This is well beyond what little I am able to do.”

“I was afraid you'd say that. Look, whatever it is you need me to do, can it wait? The Winchester shop is running a little short-handed until I can get Sam back to normal, or whatever.”

“It cannot wait, I am sorry. But it is not very far from South Dakota, so you will not be taken far out of your way.” He hands Dean a slip of paper. “There is a person at this location with whom you should speak.”

“Oh yeah? About what?” Dean bends over to pick up the clothes he left on the floor last night and toss them into his bag, and when he straightens, the angel is gone. “Terrific. I think angels are physically incapable of giving straight answers. Okay, Sammy boy, let's hit the road. We have a long drive ahead of us.”

Sam bounces to his feet, hits the floor with a thump, wags his tail enthusiastically, then shoves his nose against Dean's thigh, leaving a wet smear on the denim.

“Oh, dude, gross. Why the hell do dogs have to have wet noses, anyway? Nasty. Hey!” Sam is nudging him insistently. “What? I already let you out. What? Oh,” he feels suddenly stupid as his own stomach growls. “Breakfast. Right. When's the last time we ate, anyway?” He thinks it may have been lunch yesterday, or maybe even breakfast. Either way, he's starving, and if he remembers anything about dogs it's that they're basically stomachs on legs. He packs up the car, spreads a blanket on the passenger seat, turns to see Sam sitting in the doorway, watching him.

“Okay, let's see how much of a dog you really are,” he says quietly, then bends over, hands on his knees, raises his voice an octave, almost falsetto, keeps his tone light, happy. “C'mon Sammy! C'mere boy! Come to Dean!”

It's like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. The dog leaps to its feet in a frenzy of overjoyed barking, throws itself at him and shoulder-blocks him so hard he nearly falls. He laughs, thumps Sam's ribcage. “What a good boy you are, Sammy! What a good dog! C'mere you big old goofball!” He flips the dog onto its back, rubs its belly as it squirms, tail lashing, grinning all the while. “Let's go get some breakfast, buddy. C'mon, in!”

Sam bounces into the front seat, immediately sticks his head out of the window when Dean rolls it down, lets his tongue hang out, squinting happily into the wind. He whines when Dean leaves him in the car, scratches at the door.

“Hey, hey! Watch it with those claws of yours on my baby! Look, buddy, I can't take you into the diner with me, and it's too cold to leave you outside, even if it is only October, so you're staying in the car. I'll stop after and get you food. I think I saw a pet supply place in town.”

Sam whines again, then settles down with a resigned air, nose on his front paws, hazel eyes staring reproachfully at Dean.

“That settles it. You're definitely Sam. Only Sam can pull off a bitchface like that. God, and I thought the puppy dog eyes were bad when you were human. Now they're actual puppy dog eyes,” he grumbles. “Look, I promise, there will be food soon. But I'm the big brother here, you're the bitch who got turned into a dog —and how funny would it have been if you were an actual bitch? Okay, maybe too ironic there— and anyway, I'm getting food first. Opposable thumbs totally trumps cute dog. Got it?”

There's an insulted huff of air, but Dean is the one with the car keys, and so he gets to have breakfast first. He tucks into his bacon and eggs, watches the car through the window of the diner, keeping an eye on Sam. Sure, he left the window cracked open, but don't people's dogs suffocate to death all the time in cars? Maybe that's just in the summer, when it's hot. Still, he doesn't want to take any chances. He leaves an overly-generous tip, sneaks half his bacon into a napkin, and heads back to the car.

Sam is as overjoyed at getting bacon as any dog usually is, and then Dean gets treated to some very enthusiastic bacon-flavoured doggy kisses.

“Sam! Bad dog! Eww!” he shoves him aside, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Ugh. That's seriously nasty. Okay, new rule. No licking me on the lips, got it?”

All he gets is another of those shit-eating grins. He's not even sure he got his point across. Rolling his eyes, he switches on the ignition, heads into town.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It takes a few minutes of cruising up and down the two or three main streets before he catches sight of the sign he saw before for the pet supply store. A hand-written sign in the window decorated with paw prints declares: 'Bring in your furbabies! All pets welcome!'

“See that? You can stretch your legs.”

Sam jumps out behind him, not waiting for him to open the passenger door, pads behind him. Bells chime as Dean pushes the door to the shop open, and he holds it until Sam is in, making a beeline for a large bowl of water set out on the floor. Dean could kick himself for not having even given thought to the fact that of course you need to give a dog water. It's not like Sam can ask for it by himself anymore.

“Can I help you?”

A young woman appears from the back of the store, wearing a canary yellow polo shirt and a purple half-apron which seems to double as a kind of utility belt. It's got the name of the store stencilled on it in the same canary yellow along with a bunch of paw prints similar to the ones on the sign in the window. She's kind of hot, now that Dean isn't staring at the fashion disaster that appears to be store policy, with soft auburn hair and big brown eyes and really long lashes, and the kind of figure that makes him want to explore every inch with his hands. He clears his throat.

“Uh, yeah. I, uh, have to... uh, I'm looking for dog food,” he gestures vaguely to where Sam is making short work of all the water in the bowl, sloshing it over the side. “Uh, sorry, he's kind of making a mess.”

She laughs. “It's fine. We put it there for the dogs, and that's why there's a plastic mat under it: comes with the territory. He's gorgeous. Groendael, right?”

“Uh, what?”

“Belgian shepherd. I guess you didn't get him for breeding purposes, then?”

Dean chokes. “God, no! I... this wasn't exactly planned. I'm keeping him with me, though.”

“Right. It's just that he's not fixed, and usually when you've got a purebred dog that isn't neutered it means the owner is planning on showing and breeding him. He's definitely show quality, this one. If he's just a pet, you should consider getting him neutered.”

“What? No! Uh... look, I'll just... make sure he keeps out of trouble. God,” he wipes a hand over his face, feeling himself break out into a cold sweat.

She laughs at him, goes over and pets Sam, who raises a muzzle still dripping with water and swipes his tongue over her cheek, making her giggle. “Well, aren't you friendly!” She thumps his ribcage. “What's his name?”

“Sam. I'm Dean, by the way. We're a package deal,” he winks, and is rewarded with another laugh.

“It's nice to meet the both of you, Dean,” she gets up and shakes his hand. “I'm Laura. So I take it Sam here is your first dog?”

“How'd you know?”

“Lucky guess. You're going to need more than kibble if you want to take care of him, you know. Not much more, but a little.”

Suddenly Dean is feeling even more out of his depth. “What?”

She turns and heads down an aisle, and he gets a very nice view of her ass in her black work pants. “For one, you need a collar and a leash.” There's a disapproving whine from Sam, and she glances over her shoulder. “I don't need any lip from you, Sparky,” she calls out, half-teasing, and Dean finds himself grinning.

“Hey, how'd you know that was his nickname?”

She shrugs. “He seems like a Sparky. Anyway, most states have leash and collar laws, and you'll need a license for him, too, if you don't have one already. Have you got food and water dishes?”

“Uh, no. I'm sort of on the road a lot.” As if that explains anything, but it doesn't appear to faze her.

“Right. Well, there are a couple of things you can get for the road, but you can just hit Wal-Mart or something for those. Kibble comes in paper bags, and those'll get wet and tear and then you'll have damp kibble all over your car.”

“Don't want that.”

“Yeah. So, plastic resealable bins are your friend. You do a lot of hiking?”

“Sometimes,” he follows her when he realizes she's heading to the back of the store. She hands him a blue canvas... thing. It looks like saddlebags, only smaller. “What is that?”

“Doggy saddlebags, basically. If you're planning on taking this guy with you for a hike that's longer than half a day, he can carry his own food and water.”

“I like the sound of that.” Dean is making a mental checklist as he goes. “So food, water, collar, leash. Anything I'm missing?” He goes over to a rack on the wall with an array of collars and leashes, picks out a set in red leather that looks like it'll look really nice against the black of Sam's fur. And isn't that the weirdest thought that has ever crossed his mind? 'Sam' appears to be a pretty common dog name, because he finds a name tag with it already engraved, picks it up on general principle.

Laura leads him back toward the front of the store, where Sam has managed to shove his head in a display rack of birdseed and has toppled several boxes on the floor. Cursing, Dean picks them up, tries shoving them back in place a bit haphazardly until Laura rescues him, takes the boxes away.

“I got it. This happens all the time. And yes, you're forgetting something vitally important,” she arches an eyebrow at him, all mischief and teasing, and he kind of wants to put out a hand and trace the outline of her lips with his thumb. She reaches into one of the baskets lined up against the wall, and pulls out a rubber toy, squeezing it with one hand and making it squeak. “Hey, Sammy! Catch!”

Sam leaps to his feet in an instant, catches the thing neatly in his teeth, wags his tail as it squeaks. He drops onto his belly, gnaws happily at the toy, squeaking noises filling the shop. It's so cute it's vaguely nauseating. There's also drool all over the toy.

“I'm guessing that falls under the category of you-break-it-you-bought-it. Although in this case I suppose it's more you-slobber-on-it-you-buy-it.”

“Got it in one. Bring your stuff to the counter, I'll ring it up. Tennis balls.”

“I'm sorry, what?”

She's tapping at the cash register keys. “You should play fetch with him, and tennis balls are your best bet. Frisbees are good, too, but they're more expensive and they get chewed up pretty fast. Shepherds need a lot of exercise. That'll be twenty-seven fifty. Want a bag?”

He forks over a ten and a twenty, looks pointedly at Sam. “You owe me, buddy. C'mere,” he reaches down and fastens the collar around the dog's neck, earning himself a wet kiss on the ear and a determined attempt to not wear the collar. “Big goof. Hold still. Don't look at me like that, it's just a collar, not a torture rack, okay?” The hazel eyes give him a how-could-you look, and Sam submits, but not very gracefully. How can a dog be making him feel this guilty? Oh, wait, it's Sam.

Laura obviously thinks the two of them are adorable. “Oh, he'll make it worth your while, I promise. Dogs always do. You know, you're good with him. You sure you've never had a dog before?”

“Oh, I'd remember. No, Sammy's just... well, it's like I know him already, you know?” He thumps Sam on the ribcage, and the dog jams himself up against his leg, looking up at him adoringly with those big eyes. He's kind of reminded of when Sammy was a little kid and trailed after him everywhere like —like a puppy. The irony of this is a little thick, even for him. “I suppose that sounds crazy, or at least a little new-agey.”

“No, not at all. It's kind of sweet, actually. Sometimes you just form a bond with your pets. I know I did with my Sasha. She's a mutt, but she's my mutt.” Laura packs up the remaining kibble and tosses in a complimentary rawhide bone and a packet of fake bacon strips, refusing to accept thanks for it. “I don't suppose you're in town for long?”

Dammit. He glares at Sam. “No, we have to get going, we've got a long trip ahead of us. Wish I could stay, though,” he leans on the counter and smiles at her, his meaning obvious, and she laughs.

“Well, why don't you take my card? That way, if you're ever in the area, you can look me up.” She picks up a card from a small black plastic case on the counter, holds it out to him between her middle and index fingers. Her nails are cut short, no polish, but well-maintained, and when he lets his fingers trail maybe a fraction of a second longer than is strictly necessary over hers, her skin turns out to be soft, pliant under his.

Sam barks loudly, wags his tail. She pulls back with a nervous laugh, blushes and looks at the counter. “Right, well, I shouldn't keep you. Have a good trip, you hear?”

“Yeah, thanks. C'mon, Sammy, time to hit the road.” He clips the leash on the collar, yanks it maybe a little harder than he would otherwise and gets Sam out of the store, the bag of supplies under his arm. “Little cockblocker. If you weren't a dog, I could totally have... uh, I was going to make a joke about doing it doggy-style, but now it just strikes me as weird and inappropriate. See? You're ruining sex for me, dude!” He opens the passenger-side door, lets Sam hop inside. “Then again, if you weren't a dog, I guess we would never have gone in the store at all. So... yeah.”

He pulls out the map, starts planning out his route. “It sort of sucks that you can't read a map anymore. Kind of used to having you navigate for me.” He reaches over, fondles the dog's ears, and pulls out onto the road.

Ten minutes later and they've hit the highway, Sam's head out the window, the wind ruffling his fur. Dean cranks up Black Sabbath, bops his head to the rhythm, beats out a tattoo on the steering wheel with his hands.. On the whole, he decides, things aren't looking so bad.

*****


	6. Chapter 6

In Maidsville, West Virginia, they come across a demon.

If it weren't for Sam, Dean might not even have noticed it. They're not even supposed to be stopping, except that the Impala's fan belt gives up the ghost and Dean has kind of run out of spare pantyhose to jury-rig something together. So he stops, finds a mechanic who makes appropriate cooing noises over his baby, enough so that he feels comfortable leaving her to be serviced for a few hours. Then he's stuck with a dog who's really wound up from being stuck in a car for half the day and nowhere to go. He checks them into a motel, cursing the delay, then takes Sam for a run, figuring he'll wear him out and then he won't have to deal with the bouncing and the barking and the freaking out at squirrels.

Turns out, shepherds have a lot of energy. In retrospect, he realizes that he should have known this. They're working dogs, meant to spend all day and sometimes all night running in circles around giant flocks of sheep. So the fact that Sam can, in dog form, literally run circles around him all day and night shouldn't come as a surprise. He's drenched in sweat and run ragged by the time he's done, and Sam is still raring to go, if a little winded. So after a shower and a change of clothes he goes to Wal-Mart, buys a couple of Rubbermaid bins and a tube of tennis balls, and takes the dog out to a nearby park for a game of fetch.

Laura was right: Sam loves it. It takes a while to get the message through his skull that if he gives the ball back, then Dean can throw it again and he can keep the exciting game going for as long as he wants, but after a couple of times of chasing each other around the park, he gets it, and they settle into a rhythm of throw-fetch-return. By the end, Dean is pretty sure he's developing a nasty case of tennis elbow, and the ball is covered in slobber, but at least the dog is doing all the running this time. Then he discovers that he can make him run for the ball by just pretending to throw it and hiding it behind his back, and laughs so hard he thinks he might rupture something while Sam casts about in the grass, looking confused but still kind of happy all the same. He makes Sammy dance for the ball, switching it from hand to hand, holding it up out of reach and making Sam bark and jump and twist in circles. Sam finally lowers himself stiffly on his front paws, hindquarters in the air, tail lashing excitedly, and barks insistently before Dean throws the ball as hard as he can and watches him take off at top speed across the grass.

“Attaboy, Sammy! Go get 'im!” he crows, wishing he had a camera to tape this.

“Cute dog.”

He looks up, and decides that maybe Sam isn't a total cockblocker after all. Chicks dig dogs, and this chick is very, very cute. Not like Laura, this one is shorter, looks like she might be East Indian, or something along those lines. Olive skin, luminous brown eyes, she's encased in jeans that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination and a white t-shirt that reveals a lot more than it hides.

“Thanks. Where's yours?”

“Oh, I don't have a dog. My roommate's allergic, and besides, I live in an apartment.”

“Roommate, huh?” He watches as Sam digs around for his tennis ball where it rolled under some bushes.

“That's right. She's out of town, though, visiting her parents. My name is Alo, by the way.”

“Dean. Is that short for something?”

“Allison. I hate 'Ali,' so my friends came up with something more creative. I haven't seen you around here before. You new?”

“Not so much. Car broke down, we're just passing through.”

“We?”

“Me and my dog,” he points to where Sam is loping back, drooling over his tennis ball, looking smug as only a dog with a tennis ball can.

Sam drops the ball a couple of feet away, looks up at Dean, tail wagging, sniffs the air, then whips around to face Alo, his whole attitude changing in a split second. To Dean's astonishment Sam's hackles rise, and a low, menacing growl rumbles deep in his chest. He snarls, teeth bared, gathers himself, looking for all intents and purposes as though he's about to launch himself at her throat and tear out her jugular. It hits him then that Sam is a freaking huge dog, that those teeth make the big bad wolf look like a chihuahua with gum disease. He seems to have grown to twice his usual size, too, all his fur standing on end, and if Dean didn't know his brother was in there, somewhere, he wouldn't be ashamed to admit that he was this close to taking to his heels like a little girl.

“Woah, buddy, easy,” he hurries over, puts a hand on the dog's neck, feels the tension vibrating in him. His gaze flicks back to Alo, who hasn't so much as flinched. Well, that's certainly not normal. “What is it, buddy?”

“Your dog is psycho,” Alo says, shifting her weight so that one hip is jutting out provocatively.

“My dog is just fine, thanks,” Dean glares, and Sam snarls louder, explodes into a frenzy of barking. For the hell of it —because when have their lives not been complicated?— he stands up, reaches back to put a hand on the butt of the pistol tucked into the back of his pants. “Cristo.”

And there it is: Alo's eyes flicker black, like a third eyelid. It never looks less freaky, he thinks, no matter how many times he sees it. She doesn't move, her lips pulling back into a mocking smile. Demons and hubris, it's a winning combo.

“Well, who's a clever doggy?” she says derisively, but he can see she's eyeing Sam carefully, and it gives him a moment of pride. “Got yourself a guard dog now, Dean-o? It won't keep you safe, you know. You have all the legions of hell on your tail.”

Dean snorts. “Please. You think you count as all the legions of hell? You have one hell of a superiority complex. I suppose, coming from a demon, I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Oh, I'm not the legions, but it would be a pretty good kick-start to my career to offer your head to Lucifer on a platter, don't you think?”

“Sweetheart, you're welcome to give it your best shot. Come on, I dare you.”

He's stalling, and they both know it. He's kicking himself for getting complacent, for thinking he could just take a dog to the park and play a normal goddamned game of fetch, for walking into a situation without planning his exit strategy. They're caught out in the open, and all he has now is his gun, which is next to useless in this situation, and Ruby's knife, which is a whole metric assload of not-subtle when it comes to demons. The park is bordered by trees, and he figures they can make a break for it if there's enough of a diversion, gank this bitch where no one will be there to see. He's still working on how to create a diversion when the demon loses her patience and with a sweep of one hand sends him flying a good dozen yards backward. He hits the ground, winded, scrabbles for purchase on the grass, feels himself lift off again. This time he connects violently with a tree, feels his head smack against the rough bark, sinks to the ground, dazed.

There's a blur of motion as Sam gathers himself and launches himself at the demon with a snarl, and if there was any doubt in Dean's mind before that Sam wanted to rip out her throat, there's none now. Alo, caught off-guard by the sudden onslaught, goes rolling in the opposite direction, and Dean only sees a tangle of arms and legs and tail and fur, accompanied by the most gruesome snarling he's ever heard —and that's saying something for him.

“Sam!”

He snatches the knife from its holster, tries to find an opening, but dog and girl are in a fight to the finish, neither giving ground, and he can't see how to get at the demon without running the risk of seriously hurting Sam. At least they've rolled toward the trees, and a quick glance around tells him that no one has noticed the fight, at least not yet. He chases after them, finds Sam with a near-death grip on Alo's throat, worrying at her like a rat. Then her eyes flicker black-brown-black-brown, her back arches, and smoke pours from her mouth in a primal scream before she falls back to the ground, limp and unresisting.

Immediately Sam backs off, sits on his haunches a few paces away, starts grooming his coat as though nothing at all was the matter. Dean sprints to the girl's side, pats her cheek. “Hey, hey! You alive in there? Hey!”

Her eyelids flutter a moment later, but her gaze is unfocussed. “Wh-what happened?”

He casts about for a good story. You-were-possessed-by-a-demon never seems to go over well, for some reason. “Uh, you got attacked by a dog. Me and Sam here, we got here just in time.” That'll explain away the bite marks on her arms and the spot where her neck meets her shoulder, the torn clothing.

“Sam?”

“That's my dog. Can you get up?” he tugs on her hands, and she lets him pull her to her feet, leans heavily on him.

“How did I get here?”

“I don't know, sorry. The dog ran off, so I think you're safe for now. Is there anyone I can call for you? A friend, roommate, boyfriend?”

“Uh... it's okay, I live like a block away from here with my boyfriend.” She's shaking, obviously in shock, her skin grey under the bronze tone.

“You sure you don't want me to call someone? You need to see a doctor, make sure you get a rabies shot,” he adds, thinking that he ought to see about getting Sam his shots, too, if this turns out to take longer than a few days to sort out. Dogs getting rabies is definitely a bad thing.

“No, no, I'm okay. I just... I have to go.” She pulls away, and reluctantly he lets her go, watches as long as he can, just to make sure she gets out of the park safely.

“Goddamned demons,” he mutters.

Sam growls deep in his throat, and he takes that as agreement.


	7. Chapter 7

The mechanic that Dean had so much faith in fails to come through. In all fairness, it's not his fault. There are a couple of things that need fixing in the car aside from the fan belt, and when the mechanic points out that he's on the verge of losing a wheel, Dean has to admit that he's probably right, and grudgingly agrees to stay another day. No use breaking down in the middle of the highway. So he calls Bobby, tells him there's going to be a delay, and tries to find something to do in this tiny freaking little town before he loses his mind. At the very least he's hoping there won't be any more demons: that little adventure this afternoon was more than enough for one day, thank you very much.

He ignores the reproachful looks he gets from Sam and leaves him in the motel room with the TV on, and bowls full of kibble and water, and heads to the nearest bar. It's not like he wouldn't be leaving Sam to do whatever it is he does if this was a normal night, right? And hanging out as a dog has to be better than hanging out and brooding and angsting and feeling sorry for himself, which is pretty much all Sam seems to be doing these days anyway. So Dean refuses to feel guilty. Absolutely 100% refuses. The dog will take a nap, have some kibble, gnaw on that new rawhide bone he seems to like so much. Doggy heaven.

It's been a long time since he's had the down time to do something like this: just go out, kick back, line up the PBRs on the bar in front of him. He orders a few shots of whisky, too, mixes himself some boilermakers. He's not far from the motel, he's not driving, and the apocalypse is pretty much on hold as far as he's concerned, at least until he's got his wheels back. He turns his back to the bar, leans on his elbows against it, beer in hand, and lets his eyes sweep the room. It's fairly crowded in the bar, but not so much that he can't pick out a couple of pretty faces, and eventually one of said pretty faces makes her way to the bar, having left her safety net of friends behind. She saunters up, all curves and a bit too much makeup, the dark red lipstick all but screaming 'I'm on the prowl,' and within about ten seconds he thinks he may have a sure thing.

“Buy you a drink?” he cocks his head, gives her a small smile, and is gratified to see her respond almost immediately to him. The tip of her tongue comes out, darts against her lips, darts back in behind white teeth.

“I like rum and coke,” she tells him, sliding onto a stool so that she can show off an expanse of very long and very attractive bare leg under the short skirt of the little black dress she's sporting. The generous cleavage isn't too hard on the eyes, either. He signals to the bartender, and like magic there's a rum and coke in front of her, complete with one of those little plastic swords.

“I'm Dean, and it is a _pleasure_ to make your acquaintance,” he takes her hand, gives it a suggestive squeeze, and she giggles when he lets his thumb drift over the pulse point in her wrist.

“Tracy. You're not from around here, are you?”

“Just passing through.”

She sticks the plastic sword in her mouth and sucks on it suggestively. “Just my kind of guy, then. I'm not into the whole commitment thing.”

Oh, this is the best night _ever_. It takes two more rum and cokes before Tracy cheerfully abandons her friends and lets him pin her against the wall just outside the ladies' room, her tongue darting against his, tasting sweet and tart from her drinks at the same time. She runs her hands up his shirt, manicured fingernails scraping against skin, nips at his lips with her teeth.

“God, your mouth is beautiful,” she murmurs, still kissing him, her words slurred. “I want it to do so many dirty things to me... please tell me you're staying nearby. Take me back with you?”

“Oh, hell yes!”

They almost don't make it back to the motel room, but he manages a heroic feat of self-control, unlocks the door and pulls her inside, trying not to focus too much on the fact that she's been trying to undress him for the past half-block —and turns to find Sam on his bed, staring balefully at him. Tracy giggles, still under the effects of her drinks. Apparently she's a cheap date, which is all to the good, as far as he's concerned.

“Cute dog.”

Great.

“Uh, yeah. Hang on, lemme just...” he grabs Sam by the collar. “Dude, this is way too weird. You're going in the bathroom,” he says, hopefully too low for Tracy to hear, and then hauls the dog off the bed, into the bathroom, and shuts the door firmly.

“Aww, poor doggy! You didn't have to do that,” Tracy kicks off her shoes, advances on him with a predatory look in her eye, obviously not too concerned with the dog's well-being.

“No, I really did. I am _not_ doing this with him staring at us.”

“Whatever.”

She rubs up against him, encourages him to unzip her dress and peel it off her, and God she is just as curvy as he thought she'd be, and he sort of loses his train of thought as she tugs off his shirt and starts working on the buttons of his fly, shoving hard at him until he's on his back on the bed. He lets his hands play along her hips, grinning: he likes a girl who can take charge, and she obviously knows what she wants, pulling at his jeans as though they're the last thing between her and the lottery.

That's when the barking starts.

At first he tries to ignore it. Hell, it's not that hard: Tracy is all over him, murmuring obscenities into his ear, working over him with her tongue like he's a fucking ice cream cone, and it's all he can do to keep himself thinking straight, let alone worry about his dog —brother, whatever— locked up in the bathroom. Except the barking gets louder, more insistent, and then doesn't stop. Tracy laughs, but she's starting to look annoyed, too, and he knows exactly how she feels.

“Uh, your dog is kind of killing the mood here, honey.”

“I know, sorry.” He turns to the side. “Sam, shut up!” The barking stops, and he turns back. “Okay, where were we?”

Tracy smiles lasciviously. “You were about to do something unspeakably filthy to me with that sinful-looking mouth of yours,” she says, pulling him on top of her, her hands snaking past the elastic of his boxers, making him gasp at the contact.

“Not if you keep distracting me,” he manages, before using the aforementioned sinful-looking mouth to nibble at her neck, enjoying the feeling of her arching beneath him with a moan. He's never figured out why women like his mouth so much, but he's not going to stop and analyze it right now, that's for sure. Right now he's just going to take advantage of this little gift horse to make her make some really obscene sounds, the kind he loves listening to.

Or, rather, the kind he would love listening to if they weren't being _drowned out by the sound of his dog howling_ on the other side of the bathroom door. Ignoring it doesn't work, the howling just gets louder and louder until the neighbours start pounding on the walls. He feels his shoulders sag, lets his head drop.

“Son of a _bitch_!”

Tracy rolls her eyes, laughs, then reaches for her dress. “Okay, honey, you're really hot and all, but there's only so much I'm willing to put up with. I didn't come here for a re-run of 'Best In Show.' Sorry.” She rearranges her dress, shoves her feet into her shoes, brushes one hand suggestively against the front of his boxers. “Next time, lose the mutt, 'kay?”

And she's gone.

He yanks open the door to the bathroom, lips pressed tightly together, makes an ironic 'after-you' gesture, and Sam trots past him and hops onto the bed, turning in several tight circles before dropping down with a happy grin.

“I hate you.”

Sam whuffs gently, doesn't seem especially concerned. When Dean slides under the bedclothes, though, Sam crawls right up next to him, nudges him in the ribs, then wedges his head in his armpit before falling asleep with a contented sigh. Dean rolls his eyes, reaches across his chest to scratch behind Sam's ears, then turns on his side, falls asleep with his arm draped loosely over Sam's ribcage.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel's hand-written note takes them a lot further out of their way than Dean would like. He gets the impression, not for the first time, that Castiel's notions of time and distance are so far removed from ordinary human perception that it's totally useless to ever depend on him for a useful estimate.

“Seriously, how is Michigan even remotely 'on the way' to South Dakota?” he grouses to Sam, who's riding shotgun, chewing on a tennis ball. Dean has never given any thought to what constitutes a tennis ball —they're fuzzy and green and bouncy, and really, who needs to know what's inside them?— but he's now got a really good working knowledge of how they work, because Sam has eviscerated the hell out of that sucker. The squeaky toy has already died a sad death and had to be thrown out, so they're totally sticking to tennis balls from now on: they're cheaper and sturdier.

“Next time I see Cas, I'm totally going to... oh, who am I kidding? I can shake my fist impotently in his direction, and that's about it,” he scowls at the steering wheel. “This whole apocalypse thing is jacked. Hey, Sam, do you remember anything about the apocalypse, or does the whole being-a-dog thing give you a free pass?”

The dog quirks an ear at him, drops the tennis ball into the footwell where it lies, disembowelled and full of drool. He stretches out, rests his head on Dean's knee, looking up at him soulfully, and Dean lets his right hand drop to pat him.

“I guess that answers that question. That really sucks, dude. Here I thought that being a dog might get you a break for a while. God knows, we could use one. I was thinking, you know, maybe we could just ride it out for a little while, hit the road, you and me. Littlest Hobo-style, you know?”  
Sam huffs out what sounds like a disapproving breath.

“Yeah, okay. Not the best plan I ever came up with, but it's not the worst, either. Remember that prison job back in 2006?” Sam huffs again. “Yeah, I thought you might. In retrospect, it was pretty freaking stupid. Kind of awesome, though. Remember Tiny? Poor freak got himself shish-kebabed by that spirit. Gruesome. Hey, did you see what mile marker we just passed? Uh, stupid question, never mind. I think we're still in West Virginia, barely.”

He doesn't remember if he talked to Sam this much when he wasn't a dog, but it's actually pretty easy to do, now. He keeps up an aimless stream of chatter, reminisces about old cases, complains about Castiel and Zachariah and any other angel that springs to mind. He pats Sam's head, and because they're still in West Virginia, he starts singing John Denver at the top of his lungs, not caring if he's off-key.

“Country roooooads, take me hoooome, to the plaaaaaace I belooooooong!”

Sam scrambles out of his lap, nearly hitting his muzzle on the steering wheel, and howls. Dean throws back his head, lets out a whoop of laughter, and keeps singing.

“I hear her voice in the mornin' hour she calls me. The radio reminds me of my home far awaaaay! And drivin' down the road I get the feelin' that I should have been home yesterday, yesterdaaaaaaaaay!”

Sam howls even louder, and Dean laughs, gives him an affectionate thump on the back. “Okay, Sammy, I'll stop, promise. We're probably near enough to Ohio now that it's not appropriate to be singing this stuff anymore anyway.”

They take a couple of rest breaks during the day, so that Sam can eat, have some water, go and mark some trees, do what dogs do, but apart from that Dean keeps his foot on the accelerator the whole way through the state, pushing for Michigan so he can just get this stupid errand over with and get to Bobby's post-haste. Not that having Sam as a dog doesn't have its perks —no talking, no sulking, no emo moping behind his bangs— but on the whole he likes having Sam human better. He pulls out the scrap of paper Castiel gave him, frowns at the hasty scribble; apparently calligraphy isn't an essential angelic skill. It gives the name of a town in what looks like the middle of a freaking forest, and a single name: George.

“I tell you, Sammy, I'm not sure I like this. I mean, George? As in the curious monkey or the Beatle? Neither one of those options is reassuring. Why the hell am I supposed to be looking for this guy, anyway? I freaking hate this angelic bullshit, man. Why can't I just get a straight answer for once? Is it really too much to ask?”

Of course Sam doesn't have a satisfactory answer. He's picked up his tennis ball again and is giving it a thorough working-over, slobbering happily all over the blanket Dean spread over the seat, which is also covered in dog hair. Another reason to want Sam back to normal: the Impala's going to smell of dog forever at this rate.

Night is falling by the time he gets to the small town called Rainbow Bend somewhere west of a state forest area. He leaves Sam in the motel room again, but this time it's so he can go and as around about this so-called George, who seems to be a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a taco shell or something. The first few queries don't get him very far: the folks in the local diner close ranks on him, almost as though he's intruding on some sort of private... thing. It's weird, and not a little unsettling. He finally finds himself in a hole-in-the-ground bar talking with three old guys in overalls and flannels shirts and tobacco stains in their beards, and once he's bought a few rounds they come around to his way of seeing things.

“Old George, he doesn't really like it when people drop in on him unexpected,” one of them says to him, scratching under his red ball cap with one finger. “He's a real private guy.”

“What do you want with him, anyhow?” the one immediately to his left asks. He's got blue eyes that sort of remind Dean of Castiel, only this guy is definitely human, and his gaze isn't nearly as disconcerting as having Cas staring at him from across the room.

“A friend of mine gave me his name. Said he could help me out with something.” It's not exactly a lie, and Dean is an expert at not-exactly-lying.

“Huh,” the third man snorts. He looks to be the oldest of the three, his thinning hair completely white rather than grey, and thinning to the point of baldness on top. “That's a half-truth if ever I heard one.”

Okay, maybe not as good as he thought. “Yeah, well, I'm sort of working halfway in the dark, here. I'm hoping George can help me out. It's important, otherwise I wouldn't be asking, okay?”

“Yuh. Sure. It's easy enough to find George, supposing he wants to talk to you. He ain't much of one for talking. Just take the road out of town, drive five miles, take the dirt road on your left, drive until there's no more road.”

Dean doesn't like the sound of that. “And his house is there?”

“Nope. Then you gotta walk. Strappin' young man like you, shouldn't take more'n twenty minutes, tops.”

It's like trying to pry open a clam with his bare fingers. He buys them another round, just on general principle (antagonizing the locals seems like a really bad plan), and heads back to the motel, feeling no further ahead than when they first got into town. Sam is on his bed, again. Next motel, Dean figures he'll just give into the inevitable and get them a room with a single king-sized bed, since the dog has developed such a serious fetish for sleeping in his brother's bed.  
Oh, that sounds so very very wrong. He shakes his head to clear away the thought, gives the dog a pat instead. “So it looks like George is some sort of weird hermit who lives out in the middle of the forest,” he informs him, just as if they were working a regular case, and Sam wasn't a dog. “We're going to have a bit of a hike tomorrow. Hope you're in the mood for a walk.”

Sam's tail thumps and he gets up, looking hopeful.

“Lie back down, you idiot. We're going tomorrow, not now.”

The dog sighs mournfully, flops back onto the pillow. They haven't done much by way of exercise today, so Dean can't exactly blame him. Tomorrow ought to make up for it, anyway. From the sound of it, they're going to have a hike out into the woods and back, all to meet this mysterious guy that Castiel wants him to talk to for some reason known only to Castiel, which of course he hasn't bothered to share. That's the good thing about Sam: he usually explains his reasons six ways from Sunday, which is probably why Dean finds Cas so damned frustrating. Of course, Sam isn't really in a really talkative place right now, but that's not exactly his fault.

He forgoes the TV, even though there's pay per view and it's actually a pretty nice colour flat-screen job. Somehow it just doesn't hold all that much appeal these days. He switches off the light, goes to sleep with the reassuring heavy warmth of his brother nestled up against his back.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Up until now, Dean has always been the morning person in their relationship. Sure, recently Sam has been in the habit of getting up long before he does, but that was first because of the nightmares and then because he was sneaking off to... okay, not thinking about that. Be that as it may, Sam is usually pretty grouchy in the morning until he's had time to wake up, shower, and have some coffee. Dean, on the other hand, loves mornings, moreso even than the night time, which has all its own perks (booze and women high on that list), and he enjoys them all the more because it means he gets to torture Sam before he's fully awake. As it turns out, though, dogs are even more morning creatures than Dean, and it's the ass-crack of dawn when he gets a cold, wet nose shoved unceremoniously in his ear, followed by some very indiscriminate licking.

“Ugh, Sam! Get off! Dude, you and I have to have a serious talk about boundaries. There are places where you just do not lick people and... oh, God, that sounded really wrong even to me, and do me a favour and we'll never speak of this again. Get off me!”

The dog lands on the floor with a thump, then stands there wagging his tail, giving him a very obvious look of 'open the door, already!' So he does just that, and this time shuts the door to go take a shower, figuring Sam can wait for ten minutes without it being a huge deal. He's right, and finds the dog waiting patiently by the door, looking as though he doesn't have a care in the world. Maybe he doesn't. It's a depressing thought. Dean picks up the rawhide bone from the middle of the floor, shoves it into Sam's mouth to keep him busy and to save the last of their new tennis balls from an untimely demise, and packs up his gear while listening to happy chomping noises coming from outside. There isn't really time for breakfast for him, but he makes sure Sam has enough kibble to keep him happy for a while, and grabs a doughnut and a coffee on his way out of town to see George.

Sam is more than happy to go for a walk once they get to the end of the dirt road, which is a small mercy. If he were still human, he'd probably be bitching about have to tramp through the woods again. Not that Dean isn't bitching about it now, but he totally wouldn't be if Sam were here to do the bitching for him. Well, he is here, only not exactly, and God, how can this possibly get any more complicated? Wait, don't answer that. He shoves all thoughts of apocalypse, angels, curses, and brothers-turned-into-dogs firmly to the back of his mind, and tries to just enjoy the moment of walking in the quiet forest with Sam bounding through the trees, circling back, tail wagging, tongue lolling. He's almost disappointed when he catches sight of the ramshackle cabin perched with its back to a steep ravine, a river rushing far at the bottom. Well, no rest for the wicked, right? He leaves Sam to frolic outside, dashing away at top speed along the path by the ravine, since he's pretty sure that whoever 'George' is, he won't appreciate having some stranger and a huge dog barging in unannounced. He knocks politely at the cabin door, and nudges it open when there's no answer.

“Hello? Uh, George? Anyone home?”

“Hello, Dean. I thought you might be along soon.”

A chill runs down his spine at the familiar voice. Nick's body is looking even worse than the last time in Carthage, the skin sloughing off his hands in patches, bubbling near his hairline, but the expression is the same: that terrible look masquerading as sadness and compassion, the one that pierces right through him.

“Lucifer.”

“I'm afraid you're too late,” Lucifer gestures to the floor, where his foot is resting on the neck of an old man, the corpse frail and weak-looking. Dean's stomach roils at the sight, Lucifer's pose echoing the precise one he had when he (Sam, oh God) had broken his neck in that future that never happened. Bile rises in his throat, burning. “George and I had some unfinished business, and it just couldn't wait for you to come and question him. Sorry.”

“Yeah, I'll bet you are,” Dean almost chokes on the words.

“Little brother Castiel will doubtless be disappointed that you weren't able to speak to the wyrm-slayer, but then, he must be getting used to disappointment by now, when he spends so much time with you, Dean. You've always been a disappointment to the ones who love you most, haven't you?”

“Shut up.” Dean feels his teeth grind. “Worm-slayer?” It's like he can't help himself. Luckily, bad guys like to monologue, and Lucifer is no exception, so maybe that'll buy him some time to get out of here. It's a hell of a bad week (a hell of a bad year, possibly a hell of a bad life), and it's the second time he's been caught out without an escape plan. This time, he refuses to take full blame for it. How was he supposed to know that Cas' information would lead him right into an ambush?

“Wyrm, not worm. As in, George the dragon-slayer. You should talk to your brother about the mythology behind that. It's more his cup of tea than yours, as I understand it. He's always been the smarter —sorry, the more educated of the two of you. Tell me, are you still trying to patch things up? Or have you finally worked out that you slow him down?”

“Shut up.”

“Always with the witty comeback,” Lucifer nudges the corpse with a toe. “You know, you could always just give up, let me take Sam. My way isn't the terrible thing that the propaganda says it is. Think about it: peace on earth, no demons, no angels. Just... peace.”

“Yeah, 'cause destroying humanity is such a great goal.”

Lucifer doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he just looks at Dean with those big, sad eyes. “Where is your brother, Dean?”

Dean blinks. It hasn't occurred to him until now that there are only a handful of people who know what Gabriel has done, and that the enochian sigils are still probably etched into Sam's ribcage, dog or no. He almost laughs. Sam is right there, right under Lucifer's nose, and the evil son of a bitch doesn't even know it.

“Wouldn't you like to know?”

Lucifer raises his hand in a gesture Dean recognizes as being one of imminent smiting. He swallows, hard, looks around for an escape hatch. “It's of no consequence. Eventually, he will come to me. It's inevitable, really. In the meantime, I think I'll kill two birds with one stone. I wasn't expecting you today, but when opportunity knocks...”

Dean dives back out the door to the cabin, hits the ground rolling, scrambles to his feet and takes off at a sprint. There's a frenzy of barking behind him, the sound of crashing in the underbrush, and he feels his feet leave the ground. It's becoming a depressingly familiar feeling. He lands hard, winded, scrabbles for purchase, feels the earth give way underneath him, and suddenly he's falling, bouncing hard off the rocky surface of the ravine. His heart leaps into his throat, adrenaline surging through his veins, and he claws frantically at the few roots and outcroppings he can find, but there's no purchase and his hands come away empty and torn. There's a jolt, blinding pain radiating through his side, his vision greys out as he plummets, and by the time he hits the water he's almost grateful to lose consciousness.

He's not in the water when he awakens, although he's soaked to the skin and freezing cold. Something wet and cold nudges at his cheek, and he blinks painfully, even the pale light filtering through the canopy of trees too bright. Moving is bad, he discovers. Pain lances through him, and he can't quite bite back a groan as he tries to turn his head. There's another nudge, and a whine.

“Sam?” his voice is hoarse. “That you?”

Stupid question. Who else would it be? He's freezing, though, and everything hurts, and he doesn't think he can really move. He's not drowning in the river, though, and that's already something. He hears the dog shuffling around him, the unmistakeable sound of it shaking water out of its coat, ears popping. He almost laughs.

“Good dog, Lassie,” he mutters, then coughs, tasting copper on his tongue. Not good. “Now go get help.” The dog barks once, then takes off, and suddenly the pain is laced with panic. “No! Sam! I didn't —come back!” _Don't leave me_ , he almost shouts, swallows the words before he they can leave his lips. Then it's back to waiting, to not-quite-panicking, because he can't move, and everything hurts, and he doesn't know what happened to Lucifer or to Sam, and the canopy is swimming drunkenly above his head. He can hear frantic barking in the distance, so at least he knows Sam is okay. The sound fades, stops, starts up again, but the edges of his vision are going dark, and it's hard to concentrate. He thinks maybe there was a good reason to stay awake, but he can't remember what it was, lets his eyes close. The barking gets louder again, and suddenly there's movement around him, voices.

“Oh my God! Are you okay? Hold on, we're going to get help, okay? Hang on!”

He tries to ask where Sam is, if Lucifer is gone, but his mouth won't move. He can't even force his eyes open. Finally he has no choice but to give up, let the darkness close in.


	10. Chapter 10

At first the dog doesn't really know or care all that much about what's happening. There's a nice guy next to the big black car, and he's offering pats and has bacon-flavoured treats in his pockets. He smells both bad and nice: bacon and that stuff humans put on because they think it smells nice, and faintly of ozone. He's not exactly human, but the dog doesn't care. He's nice, the pats are nice, and the treats are nice. He wags his tail, is happy to accept scritches behind the ears, sits when he's told to sit, holds out a paw to shake when he's told to 'shake hands.' It's all easy stuff, and he gets more pats out of it, and so he doesn't see a reason to not do it.

Then another man comes out of the big building, and the first guy is forgotten. This one is definitely human, and his scent is familiar and wonderful and says _home_ , and so he wags his tail and waits for them to finish whatever it is they're talking about. Dean, he remembers, all of a sudden. The smell is Dean, and that means home and nice things and love. Then Dean turns to leave, so of course he follows, because Dean is his pack, and where his pack goes, he goes. He's a little confused when Dean tells him he can't come, because what else is he supposed to do? And then Dean says 'Sam,' and he remembers that that's his name, and he's thrilled because he has a name and he has his pack, and there's nothing else in the world he wants.

Except that Dean keeps trying to leave him behind, as though the pack isn't together, is broken, as though he doesn't even know who Sam is, and Sam gets a little frantic, trying to remind him that that's not how it works. Packs don't split up, they don't leave each other behind, they don't tell each other to 'go away' or 'git' or anything like that. Wrong wrong wrong. He jumps into the car, shoves himself into the motel room, refuses to let himself get left behind. He's catching bits and pieces of what Dean is saying now, is remembering words, snatches of phrases.

“Dammit, Sam, where are you?”

 _I'm right here_. Dean doesn't seem to understand, though, and so he jumps on him, pins him to the bed, licks his face, ignores the flailing and sputtering. _It's me, I'm right here, I never left_. It doesn't seem to be that hard a concept to grasp, but it takes a moment before Dean really seems to recognize him.

“Sam?”

After that he doesn't much care what happens. Dean knows who he is, they're staying together, and so everything is just fine. A little later he hears the name 'Bobby,' and gets another warm feeling, because 'Bobby' is part of the pack too. He watches as Dean talks to Bobby, tries to wrap his mind around how he's doing it without Bobby's being there, and part of him remembers telephones, and so that's all right. Dean is talking about him, something about angels and Gabriel, and about 'happy dog,' and Sam wags his tail because those are good words, and they're coming from Dean, and that's all that matters.

That night he curls up beside Dean on the bed, feeling safe and warm, because this is where he belongs.

Driving in the car is the best thing ever. He gets to sit in the front seat and put his head out the window, and the wind ruffles his fur and stings his eyes, and everything goes by really really fast. The car smells of oil and leather and home, and there's a scratchy blanket to lie on. Dean is awesome and gives him bacon, and then they go into a place that smells of all sorts of dogs and cats and there's a nice lady there who smells of another dog, but there's water and pats and the other dog isn't there, so it's okay. The nice lady gives him pats and treats and a really fun thing that squeaks when he bites it. He's not as thrilled when Dean puts a collar on him —Dean says something about it being red, and he doesn't really know what 'red' means— but if Dean wants him to wear it, then he supposes it's not so bad. Dean tells him it has his name on it, and that's pretty cool.

As time wears on a few more things come back to him, in a vague sense. He starts recognizing the writing on signs, numbers and names, but they only register vaguely, like a half-forgotten dream. He's starting to understand people more when they talk, too, although most of them don't have anything interesting to say. Mostly he just likes to listen to Dean, to the sound of his voice, and to listen carefully for the words he wants to hear, like 'ball' and 'walk' and 'good dog.' Dean takes him running, and then they play a really awesome game of chase-around-the-park with a ball, and then that game turns into Dean-throws-the-ball-and-Sam-fetches-it-back, and that's a really awesome game too. If it weren't for the game with the ball, he'd want to explore all the fantastic smells in the park: grass and people and children and candy wrappers and dogs and squirrels (what he wouldn't give to chase one of those little suckers up the nearest tree), but Dean is holding the ball high up in the air and all he wants is for Dean to throw the ball, c'mon, _throwit-throwit-throwit_!

Then there's a terrible creature that reeks of sulfur and has smoke coiling around inside it standing next to Dean in the park. Demon. He remembers the word and it's _dark-smoke-sulfur-blood-hatred_ spilling all over the ground, and the taste of blood fills his mouth and he wants nothing more than to throw himself at the thing and tear out its throat, keep it away from Dean. He gathers himself, hackles rising, because this thing is threatening his pack, and that will. not. stand. He sees Dean move away, and that's good, but there's nowhere to run, and this is _fight-or-flight_ and there's no choice but to leap at her, and the blood sings in his veins as he takes her down like a lame deer, and her blood is coppery in his mouth, tinged with hellfire, and death is in the air and comes pouring out of her mouth in a thick cloud.

When the demon is gone he stops, backs away, because the human beneath him smells only of ordinary blood and fear, so much fear, and he whines a bit, quietly in his throat, tries to lick the blood off his coat while Dean deals with the rest of it. He knows that he's played his role, now it's up to the pack leader to do his job. He follows at Dean's heels, doesn't even need to be told: this is what he's supposed to do. Follow Dean, be with Dean, fight with Dean. There's no question in his mind, and there doesn't seem to be any in Dean's mind either, not that it occurs to Sam that there might be.

Then it's back in the car, and then Dean leaves him alone for ever and ever and he thinks he might die of loneliness, and then Dean is back and it's fantastic and super exciting, because he has a girl with him and Sam figures they might be going out for a walk. Or, even better, they might be going out to play fetch-the-ball again, all three of them. Except that Dean locks Sam in the bathroom, and that's no fun at all because the bathroom is small and cramped and kind of cold and it smells mildewy. Sam doesn't like mildew, it makes his nose feel weird. Dean is playing in the other room with that girl and he's not paying any attention to Sam and so Sam barks and howls until Dean brings him back out to play. The girl is gone, and that's sort of too bad because she smelled okay, but Dean is here so things are okay. He cuddles up next to Dean on the bed, enjoying his scent, the comforting familiarity, the weight of his hand on Sam's head as they both fall asleep.

They're back in the car after that, and it's kind of fun to howl alongside of Dean for a while, and lie with his head in Dean's lap. He's a little sad when Dean leaves him alone again, but he's figured out by now that Dean will always come back, and so it's not so bad. He chews on his tennis ball, wags his tail when Dean gets back, isn't too fussed when they get back in the car a few hours later. Dean knows what he's doing, and Sam trusts him with that.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Sam is overjoyed when he figures out that they're going for a _walk_ in the _forest_. Best walk ever. Bar none. Forests are the best.

He takes off running through the trees, the rich loamy scent of the earth filling his nostrils, weaving in and out of the pine trees, chasing after the light that's dappled on the ground. There's a ravine and the sound of rushing water, and he can hear birds twittering all around, the occasional _scritch-scritch-scritch_ of a mouse or a mole or something equally as exciting. He shoves his nose into beds of pine needles, sneezes wetly at the unexpected sharp tang of the evergreens, starts running again. The feel of the hard-packed dirt under his paws is blissful, and he flops onto the ground and rolls around, not caring that he's getting pine needles in his coat, although some part of him thinks that maybe Dean won't be happy about it. The thought is gone almost as soon as it occurs to him, and he sweeps the pine needles back and forth on the ground with his tail, enjoying the sound and the pungent smell it stirs up.

When he turns back, Dean is gone. He lets out a whine, trots back toward the cabin where he left him, feels his hackles rise when he catches a familiar scent, and he takes off as fast as he can, barking fiercely. He doesn't know exactly what it is, but it's _bad-evil-wrong_ and reminds him a bit of the demon from before, except it's different in a way he can't quite figure, and he wants it away from Dean. When he gets there Dean's smell is everywhere, as well as the smell of death, and he finds a body on the floor of the cabin. He noses at it, but it's dead and not important because all he can think of is _find Dean_ , and so he casts about, trying to find where Dean's scent is fresh, follows it outside until it stops just by the edge of the ravine. He whines again, trots back and forth helplessly, doesn't know how to keep going, but he has to find Dean, and the thought won't leave him alone.

He stops, sits, whimpering, until another small bit of knowledge comes back to him. _Think, Sam_. Ravines don't go on forever. There's a logical thought process to this, and he knows how to do that although he didn't remember before. He gets up, trots along the steep edge until he sees the slope begin to gentle, spots a path winding down toward the water. He leaps down the slope, the earth sliding under his paws, goes tearing off along the river bank, until he spots a familiar shape moving in the current and throws himself into the water. Something at the back of his mind tells him that it's hard to drag a human out of the waters if you're a dog, but he grabs the fabric of Dean's jacket in his teeth and pulls hard toward the bank, paddling furiously. Water gets into his nose and his ears, and Dean is heavy, but he feels silt and pebbles under his feet, and when he's able to get purchase it's not as hard to drag Dean the rest of the way out of the water. He nudges at him, whines, paws at him, seems to remember that he could be doing something else to make things better, except that he's a dog and there's no way of helping. Not really.

Dean coughs and water comes out of his mouth. “Sam? That you?”

Sam whines, but this time it's a happy whine, because if Dean is talking, then he must be okay. He doesn't move, though, and that's not normal, and Sam doesn't know what to do.

“Good dog, Lassie,” Dean mutters, then coughs again. “Now go get help.”

Now that he can understand. Getting help. Right. Other humans have to help with this, and other humans are where the road is, so he takes off, runs at full-tilt back up to the top of the ravine and toward the road. He runs and runs, past the cabin, past the car, all the way back to the highway which he remembers because it smells of tar and exhaust and garbage, and looks for other humans. There aren't many cars, and most of them speed right past, deafening him with their horns, and no matter how much he jumps and barks, none of them so much as slow down. Finally he stands in the middle of the road, faces down the next car, barking furiously, and it swerves onto the shoulder, comes to a screeching halt, and the smell of burning rubber fills the air. One of the doors opens, and he hears voices, ones he doesn't recognize.

“—can't just leave it there. What if it's hurt?” A woman's voice, high and anxious.

“It's fine. Would it be barking in the middle of the road if it was injured?” A man's voice, this time.

“Come on, we have to at least check.”

“What if it has rabies?”

“It doesn't have rabies. Look at it, something's wrong,” the woman is approaching him slowly, one hand outstretched, fingers curled inward. “Hey, puppy,” she croons, and he backs away a step, suddenly unsure of himself. “What's wrong? You lost?”

He barks once, jumps back another step. _Dean-is hurt-Dean-is-this-way-come-follow-me-nownownow!_

“Elise, don't go near it. It'll bite you!”

“Don't be stupid, Roger, it's obviously someone's pet. Here, puppy! C'mere!” she slaps her hands against her knees in a clear invitation, and Sam doesn't hesitate before throwing himself at her. He rears up on his hind legs, swipes at her face with his tongue, oblivious to the man's yell of alarm and her own squeak of surprise. She pats him, checks his collar. “Hi, Sam. What're you doing out here all by yourself? Where's your master?”

Sam backs off again and starts barking, running toward the forest, then back toward them, back and forth. He pauses, barks again, can't believe how slow they are.

It's the man who figures it out first. “I think it's trying to lead us somewhere. Hey, boy, where's your owner? Is someone out there?”

He barks, decides they've figured it out, and starts to run, only pausing ever so often to make sure they're following. They're maddeningly slow, but they're only running on two legs, so it's probably not fair to expect them to run as fast as him. He takes them down the slope, back to Dean, and then the woman is pulling out her cell phone and talking agitatedly into it. He hears the word 'ambulance,' and remembers big and white and flashing lights, and he remembers that it's a good thing, that the other humans are going to help. He runs in circles around them while they kneel next to Dean, darting back and forth, barks a few times until the man Roger shushes him, and he subsides with a chastised whine. Roger tries to grab him by the collar, but he doesn't want anyone but Dean touching him, at least not without Dean's permission, and so he backs away, growls deep in his throat when Roger tries to corner him, and the man backs off after that, hands in the air.

“The dog's insane, Elise!”

“No he's not. You're looming over him and his master hasn't told him you're okay. Jeez, Roger, you'd think you'd never been around a dog before. Don't try to grab him, he'll probably bite you. Just wait until the paramedics get here, okay?”

“Fine, whatever.”

The man goes back to kneel next to Dean, who still isn't moving. He's still breathing, Sam can tell that he's still alive, but he's making small, terrible noises of pain, and his eyes are closed. Sam watches from a safe distance, keeps watch in case the thing that smells of _bad-evil-wrong_ comes back, keeps watch because it's his job to keep Dean safe from it now that he knows it's there. It doesn't come back, whatever it was, and then there are lots of people in the woods crashing and making noise with radios and telephones and they crowd around Dean, blocking him from sight. One of the new people makes a grab for him, but he ducks out of the way — _run-danger-bad_ — and then they've got Dean on a plastic thing —stretcher, his memory supplies— and are pulling him up out of the ravine. Sam follows at a distance, wary, keeping upwind and out of their line of sight, but they seem to have forgotten all about him.

They load Dean into an ambulance, and he runs after it, but soon it disappears down the road, leaving him choking in a cloud of dust. He barks disconsolately, looks over his shoulder at where they left the car —Dean wouldn't want to leave the car behind. But he can't do anything about the car, and he wants to be with Dean, so he takes off at a run down the road, keeps running until he gets to the town, and then all the scents jumble together and he doesn't know which way to go anymore. He sits at a fork in the road, scenting the air, but he can't make sense of any of it, can't even smell Dean anymore, and he realizes that he's lost.

That's when he raises his muzzle and howls, long and mournful, as the day fades into night.

 

(Sorry about the watermark, but it's a great action shot, isn't it?)


	12. Chapter 12

Sam waits for a very, very long time. He lies down somewhere out of the way, and waits for Dean to come get him. Dean is his pack, and of course he's going to come and get him, because that's just how things work. Dean is _home-shelter-love_ , and all Sam has to do is wait, and it'll all get better. Except that he doesn't come, and Sam is all alone. He rests his muzzle on his paws, heaves a sigh, tries sleeping. He even succeeds for a while, but not for long. He sits up, scents the air for Dean, but there's nothing there, and he sinks down again, his heart heavy. Eventually hunger overrides _wait-for-Dean_ , and he goes to look for food, because Dean has left his bowl and all the kibble where Sam can't get to it. He finds food in a big metal box —garbage container, he remembers— all greasy meat and potatoes and sauce that he doesn't quite recognize. It's not the same as what Dean gives him, and it's not bacon, which is a pity, but it's food, and afterward his stomach doesn't hurt anymore, so that's okay.

“Hey! Get out of there, filthy mutt!”

Something clatters against the metal container just above his head, and Sam gives a yelp and scrambles to the ground, spilling everything in a big mess around him. He takes to his heels as more projectiles come at him. A rock skitters along the ground by his feet and he puts on a burst of speed, running through twisting alleys, avoiding crates and bins and the shouts of startled passers-by. He doesn't stop running until he's well out of the town limits, and he sinks to the ground in a ditch, panting, more from panic and adrenaline than from actual fatigue.

If Dean isn't going to come for him, then he has to go to Dean. It's pretty obvious, once he thinks of it. He sits, licking the remains of sauce from his chops, and tries to think about it. It seems like thinking things through is something he used to do, but it's all kind of fuzzy now. Dean isn't with the car, even though the car is home, so Dean has to be somewhere else. Somewhere else that's home. For a while he's not sure where that would be, but then he remembers another place that's home, that belongs to _pack_ : Bobby. Bobby isn't quite the same as Dean, but Bobby's place is home, after Dean, after the car, and it's safe there. Dean will be there, because that's where the pack belongs.

It's just a question of getting there.

He strikes west. He's not exactly sure how to get there, but he remembers Dean saying something about Michigan, and he knows Bobby's is in South Dakota, in that same vague way he knows that his name is Sam, that he belongs with Dean, the same way he knows how to read the signs on the roads and remembers how things work, even if he can't make them do what they're supposed to. He keeps his head up, tail up, trots purposefully along the road, mile after mile, ducks into the ditch every time he hears a car coming. Something tells him that he should definitely not be exposing himself to other people, not until he finds Bobby and Dean.

The night stretches out, interminable, and his paws start to hurt after a while, and then he's hungry again. He's not in a town, though, and he's never been on his own, never not been without Dean to give him food in a bowl. Food comes from people, so he decides to find people, which is easier said than done in the middle of the road surrounded by fields. Fields. Fields belong to people, he remembers this, and those people are farmers, and farmers have food. He keeps going, looks for buildings, for the tall ones shaped like tubes —silos, he remembers— because that means that there'll be a farmhouse nearby, a barn, and that's where the food is.

He finally spots a roof peeking out just from the other side of a hill, makes a beeline for it. He squeezes under a fence, creeps past a placid-looking cow that just watches him go by, chewing her cud. Her tail swishes, flicks unconcernedly, and he keeps going. He keeps low to the ground, hunches under a big truck in the yard, the hard-packed earth cold against his belly. He can hear animals stirring in the barn, and the unmistakeable scent of other dog is in the air, one which has marked this place as his territory. He shouldn't be here, all his instincts are screaming at him to leave, to go now, because it's not his home, but he's hungry and he has too far to go without food. There's another scent on the air: chickens. Chickens are food. Eggs and meat, all in the same place.

He follows the scent to a wire coop, and there's a symphony of low, anxious clucking from inside, beady eyes watching him nervously. There are plenty of chickens in there, roosting on their perches, but he's not sure how to get at them through the wire. He circles the coop, nosing at the wire, trying to find a weak spot where he might be able to break through, but it seems impenetrable. Then he comes around to the door, spots a metal thing holding it in place. Bolt lock, his memory supplies. He stares at it, whines, paws at it for a moment. He should know this. Bolt locks are easy, right? Dean would be able to handle this, no problem. The chickens have all backed up against the far side of the coop, clustering together, clucking softly to themselves, and he can smell the fear coming off them and it makes him all the more anxious to just get one, sink his teeth into it and feel the bone and sinew crunch in his jaws. The bolt lock is between him and them, and he nudges it with his nose, finally remembers how it works, except that it's trickier than it looks. It takes a long time, pushing and nudging and trying to get at it with his teeth —his muzzle isn't the right shape for this, either— but finally it slides open, and he yanks the wire door almost off its fragile hinges.

The chickens explode out of the coop in a flurry of squawking and feathers and terror, and it's so easy to just grab one, and the flesh yields beneath his teeth, blood spurting over his tongue, and it twitches and thrashes weakly in its death throes. Sam sinks to the ground, rips at it, savouring the taste of the raw meat as he swallows in greedy gulps — _blood-flesh-food_ — the texture rough and pliant on his tongue. He's so engrossed in devouring the chicken that it takes a few seconds before he becomes aware of the barking behind him, the sound of shouting from the farmhouse, lights turning on and flooding the yard, chickens scattering in every direction.

A dog appears out of nowhere, snapping, barking, biting, snarling out a challenge at him, daring him to fight, _interloper_ , and Sam leaps to his feet, the remains of the carcass dangling from his jaws. The dog is smaller than he is, and he's pretty sure he can win this challenge, even if he's trespassing on its territory, but from behind he hears a familiar sound, _snick-snack_ , and his mind remembers _rifle_ and _bullets_ and _pain_ , and he takes off as fast as he can, back through the field. The other dog pursues him for a short while, but a piercing whistle brings it up short, and suddenly there's a deafening roar and a stinging pain his flank. He yelps, drops what's left of the chicken, barely manages to squeeze back under the fence, feels the sharp edges of wire tearing at his coat as he rushes, ripping shallow gashes in his skull.

He runs until he can't anymore. His whole flank feels like it's burning, and he crawls under a bush and licks at the long cut there, tasting his own blood. It stings, but he keeps going doggedly —some part of his mind tells him that's kind of funny— following some long-ingrained instinct that overrides all the other messages his brain is trying to tell him about 'first aid.' It's a shallow enough cut, but it takes a long time for the bleeding to stop, and by the time it does he's exhausted, trembling and panting. The night has turned cold, and he curls into a ball, his back wedged against the roots of the bush, protecting his wounded flank as best he can, wraps his tail over his nose.

Ears twitching at every stray sound, he drifts into an uneasy sleep.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Sam has learned his lesson: stay away from humans. Humans have guns — _rifle-bullets-pain_ —, don't take kindly to stray dogs, and Sam quickly realizes that that's what he is, a stray dog. He keeps to the back roads, some part of him thinking that it might be more dangerous to try to cut through fields and forests, at least until he's learned how to fend for himself better. Bits and pieces of memory keep coming back to him, snatches of lore, names, knowledge, and it's confusing and throws him off-balance, because he forgets how to be a dog in those moments, forgets how to just _be_. All his instincts disappear, and he makes mistakes. The fact that he knows they're mistakes tells him that something, _everything_ is wrong. _Wrong-bad-confusing_.

By the end of the second day he's still limping badly, his head all swimmy with thoughts that don't belong. He's hungry, unable to so much as knock over a garbage can for food, but he keeps driving forward, heading toward the setting sun. Sometimes he stops to read sign posts, but it makes his head hurt in a way that he doesn't think is exactly normal, and the words kind of move, as though they're trying to get away from him. He wedges himself under some bushes to sleep, but things keep turning over and over in his head: Dean and demons and — _Lucifer_ — and blood and demons and he's lost and Dean is gone, and everything is a confusing jumble of images and words and things that don't belong in his mind. The world lurches from side to side, and it gets worse when he tries to put it into complete sentences, to make thoughts come out of all the images and scents and feelings. There's a tug-of-war happening inside him, between the part of his mind that thinks, that remembers words, that wants him to be able to remember how to read signs, and the part of his mind that smells and feels and just is. He buries his muzzle in his paws, wishes really really hard that things weren't so mixed up, lets out a strangled whine.

Then he takes all the terrible, confusing, horrible thoughts, and crushes them, forces them back into that part of his mind that was sleeping and that's been trying to wake up, understanding finally that if he's going to make it through all this, then he can't let the Other-Sam take control. Right now he's just Sam, he belongs to Dean, and he has to go home to Dean, and he won't be able to get home if that Other-Sam wakes up and starts up with the confusing thoughts again. He closes his eyes, sighs, and goes to sleep, knowing that he's going to wake up with everything back the way it's supposed to be.

He has no memory of Other-Sam when he awakens. The sun is creeping over the horizon, and there's dew on his coat, sharp and tangy and cold. He gets to his feet, stretches, shakes out his coat, sneezes. Dean. The feeling comes back, sharp and almost tangible, and so he sets out along the road again at a trot, favouring his right side where the bullet creased him, but with renewed purpose and vigour. Home is to the west, and so all he has to do is go the same way as the sun is going, and he'll get there. It isn't as though he has a choice in the matter. _Home-Dean-home-Dean-home-Dean_ is driving him forward, and when he allows other thoughts to drift into his mind, he can hear Dean's voice, clear as a bell:

“Country roooooads, take me hooooome, to the place I beloooooong!”

He wags his tail unconsciously at the thought, his heart already lighter than it was. He's still hungry, is getting hungrier with every passing mile, and when the sun is shining directly above his head he finds it impossible to ignore the pangs in his stomach anymore. Going to another farm is too risky: there are dogs and guns and his paws are sore, and he doesn't think he can outrun any danger that presents itself. He risks sneaking into the next town rather than circling around it the way he has been for two days, follows the scent of decomposing food until he finds a neighbourhood full of small houses, their garbage cans unsecured and easy to tip over. He manages to get into the first one without being detected, finds the remains of ground meat and sausages and a bunch of soggy vegetables and pasta. The second can falls over with a deafening clatter, and the next thing he knows there's more shouting, and he takes to his heels without waiting to see what might be coming after him.

Sam lopes along the streets, ducks into alleyways whenever it seems that people are paying too much attention to him. He can recognize the signs: they stop and point, sometimes they try calling to him, their voices pitched high: “Here doggy! Here puppy!” He's learned his lesson, though: go near enough to humans, he gets caught. Other humans are _not-Dean-danger-bad_. If he gets caught, then he can't get back home to Dean.

He makes an effort to avoid all the places where he can smell other dogs. These aren't farms, and sometimes the dogs are puny little things that he could easily take in a fight, but he doesn't want to risk bringing more humans down on his head, and that's exactly what will happen if they start barking. He avoids the places where he can smell cats, too, on general principle. He hates cats. Possibly more than squirrels.

He finds more unattended garbage cans on the outskirts of town, although he has to jump over a low-slung fence to get to them. Wary at first of attracting attention from the house, he creeps along the edge of a back yard, knocks over the two cans and rummages through them, tearing at the plastic bags. The scent of food fills his nostrils then, and he throws caution to the wind, strewing the contents over the freshly-mowed lawn in his haste to get to the food inside. Wrappers flap in the breeze, and small bits of debris roll through the grass, land among the flower beds. There's a large half-finished steak in one of the bags, and he gorges happily on it, gnawing on the t-bone until there's not so much as a scrap of gristle left on it, and the bone is stripped bare and dull from his teeth. He makes short work of the bread crusts, the mushy fruits and vegetables, and leftover milk and cereal, and by the time he's done his belly is distended to the point of discomfort.

“Hey! Get out of the garbage, filthy animal!”

A woman in a dress with a flower pattern on it comes rushing through the door of the nearest house, wielding a broom. Sam is on his feet a moment later, but the food has made him sluggish, and the bristles of the broom connect solidly with his backside, once, then twice. She's strong, for such a small-looking human. He yelps, scrambles away as the broom comes whistling at his head again, scampers down the street with the woman's curses ringing in his ears, tail between his legs. As he runs, he thinks he can hear the sound of a man guffawing, but he doesn't look back, just keeps his head down and runs as fast as he can.

After that Sam decides that towns are off-limits unless he's desperate. Farm humans might have guns, but town humans are just as untrustworthy. At least his belly is full, and it's easier to cover ground when he's not hungry. He keeps trotting, able to maintain the pace better than a full-out run, eventually comes to a fork in the road that doesn't take him anywhere he wants to go. He stops, whines, looks one way and then the other, but he wants to head west and none of the roads lead west. There's no two ways about it: he has to leave the roads.

Once the decision is made it's easy to go with it. There's no room in Sam's new world for hesitation, for second-guessing —it doesn't even occur to him. He heads straight forward across the T-junction, squeezes under the barrier fence and trots through a cornfield, the dried husks rustling around his ears and catching at his coat. Crows rise up above the dead and dying plants as he goes, cawing indignantly at the disturbance, wheeling in the grey sky above him, their wings outlined starkly against the clouds. It starts to rain as he reaches the end of the field and finds himself on the edge of a forest, the trees still young and spindly, spread out sparsely this close to civilization. He shakes his head to rid his ears of the water, head down, and ducks into the woods.

 


	14. Chapter 14

“Mama, please can I got outside now?”

Deborah Donnelly heaves a sigh, up to her elbows in dirty dishwater, and looks over her shoulder at where her daughter is standing near the back door, waiting expectantly. Katie-Anne is four feet and three inches of grim determination, holding her boots in one hand and her raincoat in the other. It's been raining steadily for four days now, and while it was easy enough to keep her inside on school days, it's Saturday now, and it's only a matter of time before she wins this particular battle of wills. There's no real reason to keep her inside, either, except for Deborah's maternal instincts which want to keep her daughter safe and dry and warm, none of which will be possible if she goes outside to play in the rain. Then again, playing in the rain and splashing in puddles is a time-honoured childhood rite of passage, and who is she to deny her daughter that pleasure?

“All right, fine. You can go out, but you have to wear all your rain gear. That includes your rain pants.”

“But Mama!” the voice is petulant, whiny, because rain pants are hot and uncomfortable and whatever other excuses a seven-year-old can come up with.

“Butts are for sitting. You want to go out, you follow my rules. Rain pants, or you stay inside and colour.”

“Fine.”

“I don't want you heading anywhere near the creek, either, you hear me?” Deborah puts as much command into her voice as she can muster. It's bad enough that the creek is cold at this time of year, but with all the rain it's probably swelled up beyond its banks, and she's heard too many horror stories of children drowning in less than two inches of water to feel comfortable letting her kid anywhere near it without supervision. “Stay close to the house.”

“Fine, Mama!”

Katie-Anne is already halfway out the door, having pulled on her rain pants and boots while her mother was still admonishing her to be safe and not go near the creek. At seven and three-quarters, she is old enough to have figured out that plausible deniability is the way to go (her older brother Keith taught her the phrase, and she enjoys trotting it out in front of grown-ups because it makes their eyes go really big). So if she can say she didn't hear her mother tell her to stay near the house, and not be lying, then she won't get into trouble.

While her mother is watching through the window she contents herself with staying nearby, jumping into the deepest puddles with both feet together to generate as big a splash as she can. The boots are new, bought at the end of the summer because, as her mother says, she's been growing like a weed and her old boots don't fit her. Keith's hand-me-downs are usually the norm when it comes to her clothes, but he was uncommonly hard on his boots as a kid, and this time her mother let her pick out her own boots, and she got a really pretty pair of pink ones with rainbows on them. She doesn't care that they don't go with her green rain gear: they're the kind of boots a princess would wear, and so she twirls on one toe, making believe that she's a kidnapped fairy trapped in a world where the sun doesn't shine, like Narnia, except that it's not winter here.

Kidnapped fairy princesses don't play in yards, so Katie-Anne slips out by the back fence through the gap that Keith showed her, and heads into the back forty. She's been going out there by herself for ever, and it's not like it's not allowed so long as she's careful. She knows exactly where she should go, too: the old barn on the Miller property. It's been abandoned for years, and Keith told her that there's a ghost there, which is why no one wants to buy the place: Old Man Miller, Keith likes to tell her when she sneaks into his room at night, illuminating his face with a flashlight, went insane after his wife died, and killed a half-dozen people before he was caught and hanged.

She's well on her way, picking her way along the overgrown path, when she sees something out of the corner of her eye. She stops, looks over, because whatever it is, it's glowing, and it's way too late in the year for it to be a firefly. It looks like it's near a small tree, just hovering, and she can't make it out, so she steps off the path, heads toward it, the rain pattering on her plastic cap. It's not as bad here in the shelter of the trees, but the rain is heavy enough that the canopy offers little protection against the damp. The glowing thing drifts away as she gets near, and she puts on a small burst of speed, trying to catch up. It's like a ball of light, but it's not like anything she's seen before, burning kind of cold, like a blue flame. She's not sure that it's blue, but that's the closest she can come to describing it.

The light bobs up and down a few yards away, and she stamps her foot in irritation. “Hey, come back!” she calls out, and trots toward it again. It hovers, waiting, then moves away just as she thinks she might be about to grasp it in her fingers. She wants to see how it'll look when she cups it in her hands. Last summer she caught a bunch of fireflies with Keith to make a firefly lantern, and she held the last one she caught in her hand, staring at it in the dark as it glowed bright-dark, bright-dark, illuminating all the lines in the palm of her hand. It crawled along her lifeline, and it was the prettiest and ugliest thing she'd ever seen, both at the same time.

Her feet crunch on the leaves and pine needles on the ground, and she's getting wetter and kind of cold, and she's not sure now which way the path is, because the pretty blue light is dancing and twisting in and out of the trees, and she's running to keep up now. Every time she stops to catch her breath she feels something pulling at her, and so she starts running again, reaching toward the light. When it swoops back in, dangling tantalizingly right above her head she makes a last, desperate lunge for it, and her foot catches on a root. Her ankle twists painfully and she sprawls forward, skinning the palms of her hands and bumping her chin.

When she looks up, the light is gone, and it's dark out and she doesn't know where she is. So she does what every sensible seven-year-old lost in the woods does, and bursts into tears, scrubbing at her eyes with grubby fists. The sound of the undergrowth crunching nearby makes her look up with a gasp, and suddenly her mind is full of thoughts of all the scary things Keith told her live in the woods and eat little girls as snacks, and she scrambles backward until her back hits a tree. The rustling sound gets louder, and a giant black shape looms out from behind a fallen tree and she shrieks as loudly as she can.

There's a confused-sounding whine, and the shape comes toward her, steps into a pool of light where the trees aren't as thick, and her heart stops hammering quite so hard in her chest when she sees that it's a dog. A dog with a red collar, which means it's someone's pet. Pets are safe.

“Nice doggy,” she says, her voice quavering. Pets may be safe, but they aren't always friendly. Especially not farm dogs. This one seems pretty friendly: it wags its tail and comes over to nose at her. She reaches out and pats it with both hands, being careful not to pull on its ears. It licks her face, and she giggles, all her earlier fears forgotten. The tag on its collar reads 'Sam.' She doesn't remember any of their neighbours having a dog named Sam. “Are you lost too, Sam?”  
Sam wags his tail, swipes his tongue over her face again. He doesn't seem lost, for some reason, not that she could explain why she thinks that. He puts his head down, nudges her injured ankle. He's got to be one of those super-smart dogs, like on TV.

“I twisted my ankle,” she explains to him. “Do you know the way back to the path?”

He whines and barks, but she's not sure what that means, so she pulls herself to her feet, finds that she can walk if she limps a little. Sam jams his shoulder against her, clearly inviting her to lean on him, and so she does, and he starts walking, slowly but surely. It takes a long, long time, and she's cold and her ankle hurts, but it's stopped raining, and she thinks he knows where he's going, although where that is is probably not her house. Maybe she'll at least find some people and use their phone. That's when she hears voices shouting, sees the beam from flashlights up ahead, and her heart swells up in her chest.

“Katie! Katie-Anne!”

They're looking for her! “Over here!” she shouts, waving her arms even though she knows they can't see her. “Dada! I'm over here!”

She limps faster toward the lights, still shouting, and hears the voices shout back, and soon she's being crushed in her Dada's arms, sobbing with relief. “God, Katie, we were so worried! Where were you?”

Katie rubs at her eyes with her fists. “There was a light, and I was trying to catch it but I got lost and I fell and I twisted my ankle. It really hurts,” she added meaningfully. “Then Sam showed me the way back to the path, so it was okay.”

“Who's Sam?” her father asks, carrying her away, propped up on his hip.

“He's a dog. He was right there.”

She points over his shoulder, but when he turns, there's no sign of a dog. Her father chucks her under the chin.

“C'mon, kiddo. Your mother's been worried sick. Let's get you home.”

She's safe, cradled against Dada's broad chest, but she gazes back at the path for a long time as he carries her away, watching for a black shape among the trees.

 


	15. Chapter 15

“The next time we go fishing, I vote we either pack more coffee, or else we pick a day when it's not raining,” Luther Briggs says, although whether he expects an answer or is just talking to hear the sound of his own voice is more than Charlie Ross can say. Luther may be his best friend, but there are times when he thinks a good ass-kicking might make him quit his perennial bitching. That's the problem with retirement, he thinks: too much time to get worked up over inconsequential things.

“The fish like it when it rains, Luther. Gets them all riled up, you know it.”

“Well, it's cold out and my socks are soaked through. Do we have any coffee left?”

“Thermos is at your feet.”

“Why are we fishing when it's this damned cold, anyway? It's November. Who in their right minds goes fishing in November?” Luther pours the coffee out into the lid of the thermos, blows on it a bit to cool it enough to drink.

“I don't recall twisting your arm. In fact, this was your idea, if memory serves.” Luther is never at his best early in the morning, and this appears to be no exception. At least he's not complaining about how Obama is fucking up the country anymore. Arguing politics at five o'clock in the morning out in the middle of Lake Michigan is not Charlie's idea of fun.

“Well, you're my friend, aren't you? It's your job to talk me out of all the stupid ideas I come up with,” Luther grouses, but he's smiling now, and that means the rest of the day is looking up.

“Yeah, 'cause look how well that's worked out for me in the past,” Charlie jokes, and they share a quiet laugh.

They sit for a while in silence, watching their bobbers on the rippling surface of the water. Charlie gazes out at the water, idly scanning the horizon. There are lots of other boats out, there always are. It's lake Michigan, not some pond in the middle of nowhere. Still, it's peaceful out here, with only the sound of the water lapping at the boat and the distant drone of motors. The sound of quiet splashing attracts his attention: it doesn't sound right, not like any kind of boat he's accustomed to.

“You hear that?” he asks, looking around, his rod forgotten. He spots it a moment later, before Luther even has time to asks him what he's talking about. “There! In the water,” he points. “Is that a dog?”

He shields his eyes with his hands, wishes he'd brought his binoculars, but it's definitely a dog, swimming with its head just above the water. He can't see its paws, but he bets they're pumping steadily. Its nose is pointed west, heading directly toward the middle of the lake.

Luther peers over his shoulder. “Sure looks like it. What the hell is it doing in the lake?”

“Maybe it fell off a boat?”

“It's going the wrong way, if it wants to get to shore,” Luther says quietly. “The way it's going, it's going to exhaust itself and drown.”

“Not if we do something about it,” Charlie answers decisively. He pulls both rods out of the water, reels in the lines, and guns the motor. Luther sighs melodramatically.

“You always did have a soft heart, Charlie Ross. Just how do you propose getting that soggy mutt out of the water, anyhow?”

“I'll tell you when we get there.”

The dog isn't all that far, but it ignores them as the boat pulls alongside, still paddling determinedly, its tail streaming out behind it in the water. It takes some doing, but Charlie hands over the helm to Luther and has him maneuver the boat in front of the dog. He leans out over the stern, and although the dog tries to duck past him he grabs it by the collar and hauls it on board amidst failing limbs and waterlogged fur. The boat rocks drunkenly for a few moments, but it's big enough to hold them all comfortably, even with a giant struggling dog. The dog kicks him in the stomach by accident, winding him, and the two of them topple in an ungainly heap in the bottom of the boat, to the sound of Luther practically busting a gut at their expense.

“Oh, hilarious, Luther.”

“Oh, come on! It's hysterical!” Luther is holding his sides, shaking with laughter. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

“Quit laughing and help me up, asshole.”

The dog manages to get to its feet first and shakes itself, ears popping and water flying everywhere. Luther sputters indignantly, his face covered in water droplets, and this time it's Charlie's turn to laugh as Luther hauls him to his feet.

“Serves you right.”

“All right, all right,” Luther rolls his eyes. “So now we've got the thing, what do you want to do with it?”

Charlie shrugs, then grabs one of the emergency woolen blankets and uses it rub down the dog, which has started to shiver in the cold morning air. “What were you doing all the way out here, buddy?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. “You're an awful long way from shore. D'you fall off a boat?”

“You know the dog can't answer, right?”

“Yes, Luther, I know that. I figure we ought to bring it to shore. No use trying to find which boat it came from, there are dozens of them. Be a waste of time. Someone on shore will be looking, for sure.”

“So we're cutting short the fishing trip?”

“You just said you were cold and wet. Seems like the dog's doing you a favour.”

“Whatever. I'll get us turned around, maybe we'll be able to get back in time for a few nibbles, at least. Just keep that mutt away from my coffee.”

The moment the boat begins heading toward the shore, though, the dog goes ballistic. It shucks off the blanket, squirms out of Charlie's grasp, and makes a determined dive back into the water, where it starts swimming again in the opposite direction.

“Holy Jesus —what the hell? Luther! Turn back!”

“What the... what's wrong with that animal?”

“I don't know. Come on, we have to get it back on board.”

“What? Why? It just jumped ship —literally.”

“I'm not leaving it to die out here, Luther!” Charlie snaps. “Turn the boat around!”

There's a repeat performance of the previous circus act, except this time the dog manages to shove a paw in his face, almost in his mouth, and Luther just about ruptures something laughing at him again. See if he ever lets Luther come fishing in his boat again, the asshole. There's no persuading the dog to stay put, though: every time they make for shore, the dog makes a break for it, and eventually Charlie gives up. The boat sits, idle, while he stares morosely at the dog, which grins happily at him, its tongue hanging out.

“You are a strange dog, Sam,” he says mildly.

“How'd you know its name?”

“Says so on its tag.”

“There any other information?”

“Nope, just the name.”

“So what now? I'm not staying out here forever just so your new foundling doesn't try to become the newest resident of Davy Jones' locker.”

“That's the ocean. This is Lake Michigan.”

“Whatever. I'm still not staying out here.”

Charlie gazes thoughtfully at the dog. “You know, I think it was trying to get across, crazy mutt.”

“Across? That's insane. It would never make it. No animal in its right mind would try that!”

“A dog might, if it was determined enough. Maybe a horse, if its rider told it to.”

“I don't follow.”

“It's a domesticated animal thing. Going past the point of endurance for a master.”

Luther grunts noncommittally, and Charlie can tell he's wearing his Charlie-has-come-up-with-yet-another-harebrained-notion expression. Which, to be fair, is accurate in this case.

“Let's take it across.”

“What?”

“Let's take it across.”

“Charlie, that's even more insane. Do you know how far that is? Do you even have enough gas?”

“Filled up the tank before we set out, and I have a couple of spare gas cans. More than enough. Come on, where's your sense of adventure?”

“Left it at home in bed, sleeping. I should have followed its example.”

Charlie snorts, takes control of the helm, and leaves Luther to sit with the dog, smiling to himself as his friend surreptitiously scratches behind the dog's ears. It's a fine-looking animal, in spite of being bedraggled and wet, its ribs showing through its coat. Looks pure-bred, and very friendly. It licks at Luther's face with a large pink tongue until he shoves it aside with an indignant splutter, then contents itself with licking his hands. Charlie doesn't bother to hide his grin, keeps his eye on the horizon. The dog settles in the bow of the boat, nose to the wind, tongue lolling, and for a moment he wishes that it wasn't so intent on getting to wherever it wanted to go, that it would just come home with him. Of course, his wife would kill him, or at least make him sleep on the sofa for the next four months. They've already got three cats and a terrier, and she's made him swear up and down that he's done taking in strays.

So instead he finds himself crossing Lake Michigan with his best friend on a rainy November morning, and hours later he watches as the dog leaps from the bow of the boat with a tremendous splash and wades the rest of the way to shore, before he can even think of trying to find a place to dock. It struggles onto the bank, shakes itself again, and looks back at the boat for a moment before heading westward once more. Wordlessly, Charlie raises a hand in farewell, and Luther snorts.

“I am dying to hear how you're going to explain this to your wife.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

The first snow of the year is falling when Dr. Mallory Yates, B. V. Sc. & A.H., kisses her girlfriend goodbye and pulls out onto the road in her second-hand blue Ford Escape that she just managed to scrape enough money together to purchase last year. Starting out as a country vet isn't exactly the most lucrative proposition in the world, but she wouldn't trade this life for anything. Of course, being the only vet for a forty-mile radius also means that she gets a lot of 2am phone calls to go out and help with lambing, with sick cows in their byres, with colicky horses. It's never exactly comforting to have to go out when it's pitch black, when the only light is provided by the SUV's headlights, when she has to scrape the frost off the windshield and hold the steering wheel with one hand while she blows on the fingers of the other to keep them warm. Still, it has its perks, too: she mostly makes her own hours, runs her practice from the extension she built on her house, so she never has to go far to go to the office and can take naps whenever she wants, and has an unlimited supply of coffee. After two years, the locals have even mostly stopped gossiping about her and her girlfriend, have stopped even being scandalized by having 'one of them queers' taking care of their animals: her work speaks for itself, and she figures she's made a difference in her own small way.

These are the things Mallory tells herself when she gets called out at o'dark thirty, squinting sleepily as she navigates the twisting dirt roads that lead to the various farmsteads in the area. Then again, Bill Jeffreys isn't a man to call her out without a valid reason, and if he says that a dog needs urgent care, then she believes him. She was half-asleep when she answered the call, and she's a bit confused about what exactly is going on, because it sounded to her as though he wasn't talking about Tiberius, his australian shepherd/alaskan husky mixed breed. Tiberius isn't exactly the type to go wandering off in the woods, either, in order to step in a trap. Trapping is illegal in these parts, but it doesn't prevent some of the locals and the occasional poacher from trying their hand at it anyway.

She pulls into the driveway to find Bill waiting for her, holding a flashlight. “Dr. Mallory,” he nods, voice gruff. He's a taciturn man, and although she doesn't know his age she's pegged him at about sixty or sixty-five. He's dressed in his customary grey flannel shirt and blue overalls, thick woolen coat hanging open over his shoulders. He's the kind of man who lives alone with his dog and his small herd of goats, and apart from all the terrible jokes that occurred to her when she first started out, she's come to like him. The local gossips have already taken great pleasure in explaining that he used to run a very profitable dairy farm, then sold it for more money than he could possibly spend before he died, and retired to his small hobby farm to live out the rest of his days without having to deal too much with other humans. “Dog's this way, in the barn,” he leads the way, lighting the path with the flashlight.

“It's not Tiberius?”

“Nah, he's inside, too lazy to leave the fireplace,” Bill's mouth quirks in amusement. “Found this one in the woods, lying on the ground, too weak to get up. Been there for at least a day, maybe two. Probably lost. Got a collar, a name, nothing else, though. Probably valuable, by the looks of him. Think he was cutting through the woods, was trying to keep going even with his leg in that trap.”

Definitely valuable, she thinks, kneeling next to the pathetic creature stretched out on a horse blanket in the straw. He's a beautiful dog, or should be: a full-grown male Groenendael, and not neutered. He might even have been a show dog before he got himself into this state. Without being told Bill kneels just behind the dog's head, ready to restrain it if it snaps at her. She has a muzzle in the car, but she'd rather not use it, especially since the dog's breathing is laboured.

“Looks like the poor guy has been to hell and back,” she murmurs, pulling out her kit. It's a low-tech approach, but it's worked for her so far. The right front paw is visibly swollen near the joint. “That the paw caught in the trap?”

“Got it in one. Name's Sam.”

“What?”

Bill jerks his chin toward the dog. “Collar.”

She nods, taking in the name on the tag: it's a commercial, store-bought thing, no contact or vet information listed. “Right. So he belongs to someone, somewhere.”

“Probably need a good ass-kicking to teach 'em how to be responsible for their animals,” Bill grumbles, and she can't help but agree. Anyone who could let this beautiful dog get into this state ought to be taken out behind the shed and shot. She pats the dog gently.

“Hey, Sammy-boy. I'm Mallory. I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I have to check you out, so I need you to hold still, even if it hurts a bit. You're a good dog, yes you are. Bill, do you have him?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

The dog flinches a bit when she runs her hands over it, palpating to check for injuries other than the leg, then takes a swipe at her hand with a soft pink tongue.

“He's really friendly. He can't have been lost for long, if he's this comfortable around humans. He's not afraid at all.”

“Could just be good-natured.”

“Could be,” she agrees, but she's not inclined to think that's the case here.

The dog licks her hand again, and she fondles its ears, wondering just how it is that she's already so fond of it. It'll take x-rays to make sure there's no internal damage, but apart from being malnourished and dehydrated, not to mention exhausted by the looks of it, the dog seems in pretty good shape, which would tie in with her theory of its only being lost for a short while. Its breathing is laboured, which she's pretty sure means pneumonia, but again, that's going to take x-rays. The pads of its feet are scarred and lacerated with new cuts, and she wonders just how far it's come before getting caught in that trap.

“He may have lucked out. The joint is swollen, but I'm not feeling any breaks. Could be a bad sprain, at worst it's a hairline fracture. Hey, Sammy boy, how'd you get like this?” The dog lets its head sink back to the ground, exhausted, but its tail thumps weakly on the floor, and she gives it another gentle pat. “Good dog. Bill, can you help me carry him to the truck? I'll take him back to the clinic. Mostly he just needs some TLC, don't you Sam? We'll get you rehydrated, put some food in you, get you all fixed up, and then we'll see if anyone's looking for you. Good-looking dog like you, I bet they are.”

Sam is a heavy dog, even if he's malnourished. At full strength, she figures he'll probably weigh a good ninety to a hundred pounds, which is big for a Groenendael. It takes both her and Bill's combined strength to carry him out to her truck and load him in the back seat. Bill gives the roof of her truck a thump.

“He's all yours. You send the bill to me, Dr. Mallory.”

“You don't need to do that, Bill.”

He shrugs. “He's a good dog. Good-natured, anyhow. Most woulda tried to bite me. I'd hate to see him put down.”

“I won't. Thank you.”

It's a long drive back, the dog's breathing whistling harshly behind her, and she keeps up a steady stream of meaningless chatter as she steers along the slippery roads, windshield wipers working overtime to keep up with the snowfall. It's the first snow of the year, so it's probably not going to stay on the ground for long, but that doesn't prevent the roads from freezing and becoming treacherous, especially where they're not paved. She pulls out her cell phone, hits the speed dial for home.

“Jenny? It's me, babe. Yeah, I know what time it is and I'm sorry and I love you?” she cringes a bit, grinning. “Okay, I know, I'm sorry. It's just... I'm going to be home in about fifteen minutes and I need help bringing in a dog. He's too heavy for me to manage by myself. Thanks, you're the most awesome girlfriend ever and yes I totally owe you pancakes tomorrow. Gotta go, the roads are crap and I don't want to end up in a ditch. Love you.”

Her opinion that she does have the most awesome girlfriend in the universe is confirmed when Jenny is at the door, wrapped in her blue dressing gown, her hair pulled back into a really messy pony tail, eyes at half-mast.

“Blueberry pancakes,” she specifies before Mallory brushes her lips in a quick kiss.

“You got it.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

In spite of Mallory's optimism, it's kind of touch-and-go with Sam for a while. She spends the night forcing fluids into him with an IV drip, and quickly finds that she has to resort to a sedative in spite of the pneumonia, because he keeps wriggling and trying to jump down first from the exam table and then away from the x-ray machine. Even sedated, he keeps looking first at her, then at the door, as though he has somewhere pressing to be and doesn't really have time to deal with this injury nonsense, occasionally whining at her as though asking her to let him out again.

“Sorry, buddy. We have to get you all fixed up before you can go anywhere.”

His tail thumps once, but she feels oddly guilty when his big hazel eyes land on her with a look that's oddly reproachful. They're an odd colour for a dog of his breed and colouring, but expressive, limpid and full of trust and affection.

She discovers a myriad of hidden cuts and lacerations under the thick black coat, shaves away the fur around each one, meticulously cleans them out and stitches up the worst ones. The foreleg has a hairline fracture, the x-rays reveal that but no other visible internal injuries, which is a mercy. She really didn't want to have to euthanize Sammy, as she's started thinking of him, and too much internal bleeding would have made that the more merciful option. She cleans out the pads of Sammy's feet, smears antibiotic ointment on them, wraps up the broken leg with a lightweight cast, and then busies herself gently brushing the burrs, matts and tangles out of the thick coat, cutting away at it mercilessly with a pair of scissors where the snarls are too much for the brush. By the time she's done, he's looking a hundred times better, the coat smooth and silky to the touch.

At 6am Jenny brings her a very large mug of black coffee, just as she's finishing up.

“I have never loved you more than at this moment,” Mallory thinks she might stick her entire head in the mug if she could.

Jenny has brushed her hair at this point, and in spite of her interrupted night of sleep looks incredibly hot in her dressing gown, a dishcloth hanging over one shoulder. Mallory knows she looks like roadkill after being up all night, but Jenny slides an arm around her waist as though she's irresistible. “You're falling for this one, aren't you? I recognize the look,” she says with an affectionate roll of her eyes. “Should I worry that you're going to replace me?”

“Sammy's a boy, so you're safe.”

“Eww! That's so wrong!” Jenny pulls the dishcloth from her shoulder and snaps it at her.

“Okay, it came out sounding worse than what I meant. Sue me, I've been up all night caring for a sick dog,” she sticks her tongue out at Jenny, then buries her nose in her coffee mug, inhaling the rich aroma with gratitude approaching bliss.

“You can't keep every dog you rescue, honey.”

She sighs. “I know. It's just... Sammy's special, you know? They're not all special.” She reaches out to pet him, and he struggles upright, shoves a wet nose into the palm of her hand. “Someone has to be looking for him: no way this is an abused dog. He's way too sociable. He's gotta be lost.”

“So how did he get all the way out here?”

“Good question. It's like we're living 'The Incredible Journey' or something. I think he's been walking a hell of a long way.”

“Living what?”

“Didn't you read as a kid? You know, the story about the two dogs and the cat that made their way home through the Canadian wilderness?”

Jenny rolls her eyes. “Canada? No. Wasn't there a movie about that with Michael J. Fox in the nineties? The cat was a total bitch.”

“You're a heathen. I don't know why I put up with you.”

“It must be the barn-burning sex,” Jenny nuzzles her neck, and she laughs.

“That must be it,” she agrees. “Stop that, I'm exhausted and as much fun as it would be to let you seduce me, I'm not quite done with Sam.”

“Far be it for me to interfere with veterinary medicine in progress. So you want to keep him? It's okay if you do. He's a good dog,” Jenny smiles as Sam's tail thumps on the table again in response to the familiar words, “and he deserves a good break, after coming all this way.” She reaches out to pat the dog, and gets a lick and a happy grin for her efforts. “Wow, he really is friendly.”

Mallory bites her lip, feeling her eyes prick for no reason she can figure out. “Yeah,” she says sadly. “I just don't know if he wants to be kept.”

“First things first,” Jenny gives her a reassuring squeeze. “Make sure he doesn't belong to anyone, so you're not disappointed.”

“I'll check with the local pounds and the sheriff's office, see if anyone has reported a lost dog matching Sam's description. Are you sure you're okay with keeping him if no one claims him? He's a big dog, and young, too. It means we'll have him a good long time. Ten years, minimum, probably closer to fifteen.”

“It's fine. I wouldn't have shacked up with a veterinarian if I didn't think we'd end up with more pets than we know what to do with. Why don't you go shower —I can keep an eye on the doggie for that long, I'm sure. Then you can make me those blueberry pancakes you promised.”

“Memory of an elephant,” Mallory grumbles, but agrees anyway. There's nothing to do now but keep Sam comfortable until he starts to heal. She and Jenny load him into one of the roomy cages she keeps in the room for boarding and for small animals that need to stay at the surgery overnight or longer, and after making short work of a bowl of water, Sam puts his head down on his uninjured paw, the other leg sticking out incongruously, encased in its blue cast, and falls asleep with a contented sigh.

The first inquiries don't turn up any information on Sam. He hasn't been reported to local authorities, and inquiries on internet forums don't turn up anything either, which is surprising, given that he's definitely a show-quality dog. After a few days of food, rest and adequate hydration, she's sure that he's purebred, and a beautiful specimen to boot. He won't be able to qualify for shows now, not with all the abuse he's sustained, but he'll definitely be wanted for breeding. Unless the colour of his eyes disqualifies him, but she's pretty sure it won't. None of the Groenendael websites mention a “Sam,” though, and so she decides that, however unlikely it is, he's never been properly registered. It could happen. He could also come from a more disreputable breeder, she theorizes, but in that case she's pretty sure she doesn't want to track them down.

For a couple of weeks she allows herself to become complacent. Sam improves steadily, and is pleased as punch when she removes the cast, limping around the house on the weakened limb with unabashed enthusiasm. He immediately lays claim to the foot of their bed, which annoys her and makes Jenny laugh uproariously. He and Jenny become thick as thieves in a conspiracy to make him the most spoiled dog in the world, and her girlfriend is all too happy to sneak him unhealthy food under the table, let him sleep on the sofa, and generally spoil him rotten. Sam is a sweet, affectionate dog, doesn't get underfoot, and is surprisingly easy to train, making her suspect that he's either of above-average intelligence, or someone has already trained him in the past, and he quickly becomes a fixture in the clinic, a favourite with the children who come in with their parents and sick pets. He's happy to submit to their pats, to 'shake hands' and 'roll over' and perform a myriad of little tricks to make them laugh, all the while giving them his wide, easy doggy grin.

All in all, it's ideal, and it's all too easy to forget her feeling from that first night, that Sam isn't really here for the long run. After all, feelings are irrational, and it's not like dogs have much by way of long-term motivations. Give him a good home here, with plenty of food and love, and he'll forget he was ever trying to get somewhere else, that he had someone else in his life to love.  
Still, she's not surprised to get up one morning to find the foot of the bed abandoned, the door to the kitchen open, and Sam nowhere to be found. Once she's spent half the morning out looking for him, she gives into the inevitable, and returns home to cry in her girlfriend's arms. Jenny strokes her hair.

“I'm sorry, babe. I know you loved him.”

“He wasn't mine, though. He never was, and I knew it, and I just didn't want to believe it,” she says finally, scrubbing at her eyes with her sleeve cuff.

“I know you don't want to hear it right now, but we can get another dog, eventually. One who'll be all yours. Or how about a cat? Cats are nice, and they walk themselves. Plus, way less drool.”

She smiles through her tears. “Yeah. A cat. That'd be good.”

Jenny kisses her. “Cat it is. We'll call it Schroedinger,” she decides, and they both laugh.

After that, losing Sam seems just a little bit more bearable.

 


	18. Chapter 18

The first thing Dean is aware of when he awakens is that there's something shoved into his throat and he can't breathe. His hands clench around something soft and he chokes and coughs, gasps, feels himself arch up from where he's lying —and oh _Christ_ that hurts— and suddenly there are hands on him, shoving against his shoulders.

“Easy, easy now! It's okay, you're okay. Relax, let us take out the ventilator tube. Just relax, honey, I got you.”

Then whatever it is is gone, and he coughs until he thinks he might puke before collapsing back onto a soft surface, eyes closed, chest heaving with the effort of breathing on his own —and since when has that ever been hard? When he opens his eyes again, there's pain. Lots of pain. The voice is back, and this time it's attached to a nurse that he thinks might be hot under different circumstances, dressed in dark blue scrubs, black hair pulled back into a neat braid.

“Take it easy, Mr. Cochran. We're just going to set you up with some of the good stuff here, and you'll feel good as new, cross my heart.”

She's as good as her word, too. A few moments later the pain recedes, and he starts feeling pretty fucking good. He opens his mouth, but it feels like someone's jammed cotton wool into his throat, and all he can do is work his mouth like a stranded fish. She notices, hushes him, spoons an ice chip into his mouth.

“Don't try to talk just yet, okay? You're a little out of practice, honey. I'm glad you're trying, though: you had us all worried for a while. I thought I might never hear the voice to go with that handsome face of yours.”

He's sucking on an ice chip like it's the most delicious beer he's ever had, but he manages a half-hearted leer and winks at her, and she laughs. She has a nice laugh. Her name tag reads 'Alison.' Good to know. He lets her feed him ice chips until it doesn't feel as though his throat is swollen shut, tries to talk again, and manages a weak “Wh—?”

“You're in the hospital. You had an accident, do you remember? Some people found you in the woods.”

“Ravine,” he manages. It's coming back in bits and snatches. At least she told him what name he's using. “Sam?”

“Who's Sam?”

But it's too hard to keep his eyes open.

The next time he awakens, he's feeling better and worse. His head isn't as fuzzy, and he's got a pretty good idea or where he is and why, but on the other hand his whole body is racked with pain, and he has no idea of the day or time. At least they've replaced the ventilator tube with one of those nasal canulas so he doesn't feel as though he's choking anymore. The room is empty, so he takes a moment to take stock, figure out what's actually hurting and what just feels like it should be hurting. Lifting his head turns out to be a mistake, but he can do it, and that's a relief. He's pretty sure he cracked or broke a bunch of ribs, and he's more than a little warm. Okay, really really hot might be closer to the truth. His right leg is screaming with pain, and while it sucks it also means that he didn't paralyse himself by getting tossed down a ravine by fucking Lucifer. He doesn't know how he got away, and that's downright unsettling.

Okay, enough with the mind-numbing pain. He rouses himself a bit more, looks around, finds a call button tied to the bed railing, and now seems like a really good time to use it. He needs to find out where Sam is, if he's okay.

It's a different nurse this time, a bit older, black, wearing a wedding ring. “Well, look who's back with us,” she says, her face crinkling into a smile. She checks his IV, fiddles with some of the machines still hooked up and beeping. “I'm guessing you're about ready for some more morphine?”

“Please God,” he rasps, feeling like his tongue has swollen to about three times its size.

Morphine is fantastic. He's forgotten since the last time he was in this much pain. The new nurse —Vanessa, according to her name tag— allows him small sips of water through a straw.

“Now that you're awake, the doctor's going to want to talk to you. You had a pretty close call, there, Mr. Cochran.”

He gives her his most winning smile, which might be a little fuzzy because of the drugs. “Mr. Cochran is my father,” and he gets a smile back.

“Dean, then.”

Oh, thank God, she took the bait. He couldn't remember what was on that particular fake I.D. He's kind of glad he doesn't have to remember a new first name. “How long have I been here?”

“A little over a week. You have some pretty extensive injuries, but the doctor thinks you'll be right as rain in no time, with a bit of therapy.”

“A week? Uh... what hospital is this?”

“Holy Cross, in Chicago. They had to airlift you for emergency surgery.”

“Chicago?” He struggles onto his elbows, ignoring the sudden stabs of pain as his body protests. “No, I can't—” but she's already pushing him back onto the bed.

“Easy, now. You're not going anywhere. Tell me what it is, and I'll see what we can do to help, all right? Is there anyone we can call? You had almost nothing with you except your driver's license and your insurance card.”

His mind is racing, barely registers her question. “Sam... did someone find him?”

“Who's Sam, sweetie?”

“My br— dog. Sam's my dog. He was with me.”

She shakes her head. “I'm sorry, honey, no one said anything about a dog.”

“He was with me,” he insists, and one of the monitors by the bed begins to beep annoyingly. “I have to know if he's okay, if someone found him.”

“I'll ask, see if anyone remembers, all right? Take some deep breaths for me, honey, you need to stay calm,” she says soothingly, rubbing his shoulder.

He's perilously close to crying, bites his lip, nods. Fucking morphine, it fucks with his head. “Thanks.”

“So is there someone we can call for you? Family? Friends?”

 _I just want Sam._ “Uh, right.” There are depressingly few people left to call. “Uh, my uncle Bobby. I was supposed to go see him last week. He's gotta be worried.”

“Okay. I'll let the doctor fill you in, and then we'll see about getting you a phone. How does that sound?” her voice sounds faraway, as though he's underwater all of a sudden, and he nods again, feeling his eyes begin to close in spite of himself.

“'S'good. Fine. Gotta call him so he can find Sam.”

Everything is a bit of a blur after that. He remembers talking to the doctor, an older guy who kind of disapproves of him on general principle, and there's talk of fractures and surgical boots and therapy, and something about lacerations to his spleen and post-op infection and 'unexpected complications' and lots of repeating of 'extremely lucky,' which he guesses is a good thing. The doctor's words jumble together, skitter around like live insects, and he wants to tell him that, but it seems like a lot of effort to speak now. Somewhere in the middle of a lengthy explanation about long-term treatment in case of further complications he drifts back to sleep, and when he wakes up again he can see through the window that it's nearly night-time. Alison the nurse is back, and when she sees he's awake she grins and holds up the plastic beige receiver of a telephone.

“Surprise!”

“Alison, you and Vanessa deserve the biggest Christmas bonus ever.”

She rolls her eyes, amused. “I'll just give you some privacy. No calling 1-900 lines, now!”

“Am I that obvious?” he jests weakly. As if he's capable of anything more than sitting upright —even that's a challenge.

“Yes, you are.”

Three minutes later Bobby's gruff voice is on the other end of the line, and Dean is close to tears for the second fucking time that day. Fucking morphine.

“Dean! Where the hell have you been, boy? We've been worried sick!”

“We?” For a moment a wild hope that Sam is with Bobby makes his stomach lurch.

“Me 'n Cas. Where are you?”

His heart plummets. “Hospital. There was a —I dunno. An accident. Or something. A ravine... Bobby —I lost Sam. They tell me I've been here for a week, and no one knows what happened to him!”

He hears Bobby exhale loudly. “Okay, boy, calm down. First things first. How badly are you hurt?”

“I'm okay. A little banged up, but the doctor said I'll be okay. We have to find Sam, Bobby. He's all by himself and he can't take care of himself the way he is now. He was my responsibility and I don't even know where he is or if he's okay. Jesus, I've fucked this up so hard...” he puts a hand over his eyes, tries very hard not to freak out.

“For the last time, boy, calm the hell down!” Bobby's voice is stern. “Pull yourself together. Freakin' out ain't gonna help Sam. What hospital are you at?”

“Chicago. Holy Cross.”

“Jesus, boy. Could you try for somewhere further?”

“Sure, Bobby. Next time Lucifer tries to kill me I'll ask him to do it somewhere more convenient for you,” he snaps, his patience worn thin.

“Lucifer? Hell, boy, why does everything with you have to be so goddamned complicated? Why didn't you say something to start with?”

“I thought I did, okay?” Dean's head is throbbing, and right now he's not a hundred percent sure he's not going to puke. He doesn't realize he's missed whatever Bobby's saying until he hears his name again.

“Dean?”

“What?”

“Thought I lost you for a minute. You sure you're okay?”

“I'm awesome.”

There's a grunt of annoyance. “Why don't you tell me what you mean by 'a little banged up' then?”

“I dunno exactly,” he lets himself lie back on the bed, eyes closed against the light. “It's kind of fuzzy. Leg's all fucked up, and they said something about surgery and complications and shit, but I was kind of out of it and I don't remember. I think I hit my head when I fell. I dunno. I think I fucked myself up pretty good, Bobby,” he adds, maybe unnecessarily.

“Jesus, boy,” Dean can almost hear Bobby rubbing his head under his baseball cap. “All right, you hang tight. We'll figure something out. Get you out of that hospital before they figure out your insurance is crap, and try and find out what happened to Sam.”

“Okay... okay Bobby,” he's too tired to think straight, can't pull his words together anymore. His hand is shaking from holding up the phone. Bobby's voice is suddenly gentle, soothing.

“You just stay put, son. We'll handle it. You get some sleep, hear me?”

“Yeah. 'kay. You'll find him, right?”

He doesn't remember hanging up the phone, just fades into darkness.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Jack Kerouac never mentioned how cold it gets when you're trying to live life on the road. Then again, Kerouac was a depressing son of a bitch even at his best, and Jerry Bonavista is surprised he didn't think of that before investing his meager savings in a beat up Winnebago and setting out in search of America. Whatever that is. He's beginning to think there's no such thing as the America he's been looking for, maybe there never has been, or maybe it's disappeared since Sal Paradise went off in the company of Carlo Marx, or whatever. He never actually finished reading the book, and maybe that should have tipped him off that this was a bad plan.

At least he's in good company. He's got Zevon riding shotgun —fifteen pounds of attitude wrapped in a Jack Russell terrier envelope— and Simon and Garfunkel playing on the iPod he managed to rig up with a jack a few months ago. He picks up the odd job here and there when the money runs low. There's also the hunting, which he enjoys, but it's not exactly a pro-ball career. He likes to think that it's not the main reason he's on the road, that he's really just a twenty-year-old in search of himself, and that's the line he feeds most people, but he's mostly figured out that, yeah, hunting is what he's going to be doing for the foreseeable future.

So that's how he finds himself just outside of Rochester, picking his way carefully along the icy roads, because God knows Winnebagos are shit at keeping the road even with winter tires, singing along to Simon & Garfunkel's Greatest Hits.

“Hang onto your hopes my friend,” he sings to Zevon, curled up on the seat beside him, “that's an easy thing to say, but if your hopes should pass away —simply pretend that you can build them again!”  
Zevon has heard it all before. He's been Jerry's friend ever since he was a knock-kneed kid, tearing around the neighbourhood with him and chasing the neighbour's cat and digging up flowerbeds, and there's nothing Jerry hasn't said or done that he hasn't witnessed or had told to him in confession. So he keeps sleeping while Simon & Garfunkel inform them that seasons change with the scenery, and ask if they won't stop and remember, and that's when Jerry has to stomp as hard as he can on the brakes when a large shape appears out of nowhere in the middle of the road.

“Holy shit!”

The Winnebago skids, performs an almost perfect 180, goes sliding along the road until it comes to a stop about two inches shy of going in the ditch, leaving a zig-zag pattern of rubber marks on the asphalt. He switches off the ignition, tumbles out of the door, followed by Zevon, who's barking shrilly and basically losing his shit, grabbing the sawed-off shotgun he keeps under the seat while he's at it. He's been on the trail of what he thinks could be a wendigo, although the kills don't all quite track so it could be a skinwalker, but he wasn't expecting to run into anything until he actually got deeper into the thing's territory, let alone nearly hit it with his van. Which is why he's only armed with a damned shotgun when what he should be packing is something with silver or a flare gun, because if it does turn out to be the wendigo (why would it be on the road?), he's screwed six ways from Sunday.

His first thought when he gets a better look at the creature is that it has to be a Black Dog, but it's not. Well, it's a black dog, but in the lower-case letter sense of the word, and it's creeping along the side of the road, head and tail down, and he feels ridiculously relieved. It stops when it senses him coming —he can't tell if it heard him or smelled him or whatever— but it doesn't seem intimidated or even particularly concerned. Zevon charges at it, all bared fangs and defiance and shrill yapping, but the dog just backs up a pace and looks down at the terrier as though he's some weird apparition, a curiosity to be examined and nothing more. A moment later Zevon is circling the strange dog, stiff-legged, and they're doing the butt-sniffing thing that dogs do when they're sizing each other up, and the Zevon... God help him, Zevon is _frolicking_ with the freaking dog. Now that's a first.

Jerry approaches carefully, but now that the strange dog has made friends with Zevon, it appears he's considered a friend too. Must be a dog thing. It's a really big dog, he realizes once he's up close: its head comes up to his hip, and he doesn't feel quite as stupid for thinking it was the fucking Hound of the Baskervilles now. A little phosphorescent paint and it would totally be the stuff of nightmares, except of course that there are plenty of supernatural dogs to go around already without making up new ones. He stretches out a hand carefully, but it doesn't try to bite him, actually leans against him and lets him pat it on the head a couple of times. It's skinny and kind of desperate-looking, its coat matted and full of brambles and burrs, but it's friendly, too. Probably some jackass kicked it out of a moving car and it's just trying to find its way home.

“Hey, boy. What're you doing out here all on your own?” It's a lucky thing he likes dogs. Common sense dictates that he should just call the local pound, but the odds are good that they're overcrowded just like everywhere else, and they'll just put it down. Shoot it full of poison or gas it or whatever humane fucking method they use, because no one wants to adopt adult dogs. Puppies are cute, but grown dogs are persona non fucking grata.

The dog wags its tail and head-butts him when he stops patting it, the message clear: “Why'd you stop, jackass?” So he grins and pats it some more, ignoring Zevon's jealous outburst.

“What am I supposed to do with you now? Can't leave you out here in the middle of winter, you'll freeze to death in a snow bank.” He kneels, checks for a collar, but although there's a slight indentation in the fur where a collar would normally be, it looks like it got ripped off. Or maybe just taken off when the asshole owners kicked their dog to the curb. “Wanna go for a ride in the car, boy?”

There's a pretty enthusiastic tail-wagging at that, although he notices that the dog hesitates when it comes to actually getting in the van.

“You're not sure about this, huh? Well, how about you just pretend you're hitching a ride? I'm Jerry, but I'm sort of trying to do the Jack Kerouac thing, so how about you be the Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise? You good with that name, Dean-o?”

To his surprise the dog erupts in a flurry of barking and starts jumping, romping in circles around him.

“Dean-o it is, then. Come on, boy, in you go!” He gets both dogs back into the Winnebago, settles 'Dean-o' in the back seat and Zevon in his customary place in the front, pulls out from the shoulder and back onto the road. “Go West, young man,” he says conversationally, “that's the plan, anyway. I hate to do this to you, Dean-o, but we're going to have to make a quick stop later on. Got some mysterious disappearances in the state park not far from here, and I'm pretty sure we're not dealing with a bear, the way the papers say. What do you say to a hunt? You game?”

Another short, sharp bark, and looking in the rearview mirror Jerry could swear the dog knows exactly what he's talking about. It's a little uncanny. He shrugs. It's a dog, no use reading all sorts of stuff into its motivations that isn't there. It's doing the dog and himself a disservice to treat it or think about it as though it was a human.

“You ever meet up with a wendigo, Dean-o? Nasty fuckers, let me tell you. I figure we'll head out, do some recon first during the day, try to keep ourselves from becoming its next snack. Then we go back the next day and torch the sucker. Best way to deal with 'em.”

The dog huffs what sounds like an agreement.

“Yeah, I know, it's weird. A few years ago, they were pretty rare. Hell, most of the stuff I hunt was practically extinct a few years ago, according to most of the hunters I've run into. Then all of a sudden last year everything starts up again, and there are monsters coming out of the woodwork. So I'm thinking to myself it's like the fuckin' apocalypse, am I right? Turns out, that's exactly right,” he says triumphantly, as though he's come up with it himself. “So after I get busy ganking some extra spirits, and start hearing rumours about demon signs all over the fucking map, I run into a group of hunters, and guess what they tell me? They tell me that it is the goddamned apocalypse, my hand to God. And that's why the whole supernatural world has its panties in a bunch. Two of my esteemed colleagues opened up the freaking hellmouth, or whatever, and now we're all screwed. How do you like them apples, Dean-o?”

The dog barks so sharply that Zevon sits up on the front seat and joins in on the action. Jerry nods, almost to himself.

“My sentiments exactly. All right, let's get this show on the road.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

“Dean, wake up.”

There's a hand on his arm, right over the hand print Castiel left seared into his skin. He barely manages to bite back a groan of pain, forces open his eyes, finds himself staring into a pair of very bright, intense blue eyes, a whole lot closer than is strictly comfortable.

“Cas... personal space.”

Castiel obligingly steps back a pace. “My apologies, I wanted to be sure that you heard me.”

“I heard you,” Dean mutters, tries to raise himself on his elbows, and decides that's a really piss-poor plan. Everything still hurts, which seems vastly unfair. “When did you get here?”

“A few minutes ago. I did not wish to appear in the hospital proper, and so I walked a short distance before I found you. The woman at the front desk was most helpful when I inquired as to your whereabouts.”

“Right.”

Castiel tilts his head in that weird bird-like way of his. “You are still badly injured.”

“That's real observant of you,” Dean grumbles. It's bad enough when Sam plays Captain Obvious, now he has to take it from the angel, too. “I don't suppose you can get me out of here?”

“I am not sure it would be wise to do so until you are better. The doctor I questioned tells me that there have been —complications. That you are not recovering adequately.”

“I'll be fine. What do doctors know, anyway?” he flaps a hand dismissively but he's beginning to wonder just how out of it he was when he was talking to the doctor. He doesn't remember any of that, but looking back it kind of makes sense. It's been a week, but he's in more pain than he should be, or at least that's what past experience tells him. Cas isn't giving him much of a chance to indulge in inner monologue, though.

“Bobby has asked me to help, and so I am here, but I am unsure what assistance to lend you.”

It's a nightmare. He's stuck in a hospital bed, his whole body feels like one giant raw nerve twanging like a freaking guitar string, Sam is who knows where, and he can't think of a single good way to explain this to Castiel without it sounding all wrong. At least they've hooked him up with a morphine pump. It's about the only thing to go right.

“Your scenic detour was a trap, you know.”

“I know it now, and I am sorry. It was my hope that the Wyrm-slayer would be able to render assistance in our struggle against Lucifer. I had not considered that Lucifer might get to him first, nor that he might prevail against him this time. It was not my intention to put you in harm's way.”

It's as close to an apology as he ever gets from Castiel. In fact, it may actually be an apology, sometimes it's hard to tell. “Not your fault, Cas.”

“Nonetheless, I regret that you were injured.”

“Yeah, okay. It's fine, I'm still in one piece, mostly. I need to find Sam. No one knows what happened to him, and I'm stuck in this goddamned bed,” he shifts uncomfortably, and Castiel puts a hand back on his arm.

“You should not move. I will try to locate Samuel for you, but I cannot say how successful I will be. He is still hidden from me, as indeed he is from all angels.”

“Fuck,” Dean says quietly. “Well, at least Lucifer still can't get his damned claws into him. Hey, Cas... were you able to see that Sam was, uh, still Sam, even when he was a dog? Lucifer didn't seem to notice, which I thought was pretty high up there in the Annals of Weird. I mean, Sam wasn't right there, or anything, but I thought maybe he'd be able to sense him, being that close.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I was unable to see anything but a dog.”

“So how come you knew it was Sam? I thought you could just tell.”

The angel looks at him as though he's just sprouted an extra head. Of course, on Castiel, that amounts to a head-tilt. “I knew because you told me, Dean.”

“Of course.” Dean's head throbs in time to his pulse. “So how are you going to find him?”

“I don't know that I will find him. I will try. I will start by questioning the people who first found you and called for assistance. If anyone has seen your brother, it will be them.”

Dean manages a weak grin at that. “You know, you're getting pretty good at this casework stuff. I must be rubbing off on you.”

Castiel manages to look offended without actually changing his expression. It's a little uncanny, how he does that. “You forget that I have been around for a considerable amount of time. I may not be well-versed in modern parlance, Dean, but I possess more than a basic understanding of human nature, of logic, and the search for knowledge.”

“Sorry. Jeez, touchy.”

Dean rolls his eyes, tries not to feel so absurdly guilty at the thought that he may well have just hurt his angel's feelings. Angels don't have feelings. Without thinking about it he sits up, and this time can't bite back a gasp as pain flashes white-hot behind his eyelids. Castiel catches him, eases him gently back onto the bed. Dean is always surprised at how gentle the angel is, in spite of his strength: he's seen him rip apart demons, fight other angels, even has dim memories of him blazing through the darkness in hell, all with the same hands that are cradling him now as though he was a baby bird. Why the hell is he always thinking about birds when Cas is around, anyway? Must be the wings.

“You shouldn't try to move,” Cas says softly. “You will make your injuries worse. Hold still,” he places one hand on Dean's forehead, fingers over Dean's eyes, and he feels the pain recede, almost to nothing. When he opens them again, Cas is breathing hard, looking pale, if that's even possible for an angel.

“What did you do?”

“Not much. I can't heal you, but I can help with the pain, in some measure.”

“You didn't have to do that,” he mutters, feeling awkward. “Save your mojo for important stuff.”

“This is important,” Castiel says evenly. “And I wished to do it.”

Dean's embarrassed suddenly, for no reason he can quite decipher. “Yeah, well... thank you.” It sounds grudging, but Cas either doesn't notice or doesn't mind.

“I should go. It is important to find Samuel.”

“Before Lucifer does?” He can't quite keep the bitterness from his voice. It seems like the only thing on everyone's mind these days —his own included— is just keeping Sam from becoming Lucifer's prom dress.

“There is that,” Castiel admits, his voice just as gentle as his hands. “But there is more to it, than that, Dean. Sam is... important. To you, I mean. And to me.”

Before Dean can quite wrap his mind around that, there's a rustling of wings and a gust of air, and the angel is gone, leaving an empty spot in the room where he was standing a moment before. He heaves a sigh, grateful at least that he's not in excruciating pain for the time being. He has no idea how long it's going to last, but it's a small mercy in what's proving to be a really bad month in a series of really bad months. So he takes advantage of the respite, closes his eyes, and finds that he can't sleep after all, as thoughts of Sam crowd into his head to fill the void left by the pain. Sam dead on the side of the road, hit by a car driven by people who didn't even know who he was. Sam starving to death, lost in the woods out by George's cabin. Sam lost and alone, completely defenseless and without any back-up.

The pain creeps back in by increments, manifests first as a minor discomfort, then flares up in the leg that's encased from toes to just below the hip in a cast, radiates up his spine and into his skull, and he's almost happy to start up with the morphine again. At least when he's in an opiate-induced fog, he can't worry endlessly about something he can't fix. Nurses fuss around him, but he can't really bring himself to care, not even when they start making anxious noises about his pulse and his temperature, feed him extra ice chips and mess with his IV bags. They ignore all his attempts to ask about Cas or Sam, no matter how hard he tries to make them understand how important it is to find Sam. Finally he recognizes Alison at one point, catches her sleeve.

“Has Cas found him yet?”

“Who?”

“Sam. Has he found him?”

She lays a cool hand against his cheek. “Shh, don't get excited, okay? I don't think there's any news of your dog, sweetie. Is Cas your friend who was here earlier?”

He doesn't bother answering. If Cas hasn't come back yet, then it's because he's still looking, and Sam is still lost. Suddenly it feels like too much of an effort to talk. He shifts his weight in the bed, winces as a twinge of pain makes it past the haze of morphine, finds himself wishing they'd turn down the central heating in this place, and lets himself drift halfway into a sleep filled with uneasy half-dreams. When he opens his eyes it's still dark, and Castiel is standing over him.

“Cas?” He has to stop and swallow, his voice a hoarse croak. His head feels like it's weighted down with lead. Castiel holds a cup of cold water with a straw to his lips.

“The nurse tells me you should sip this slowly. You have a fever.”

He does what he's told, swallows a mouthful of water, coughs and tries not to choke. “Did you find him?”

“I am sorry, I did not. The couple who found you did see Sam. In fact, they said that it was he who led them to you from the road. However, he eluded all attempts to capture him once you were in the ambulance.”

Dean chuckles at that. “That's my Sammy,” the laugh turns into another choking cough, and Cas presses more water on him.

“I believe he is no longer where you left him. He appears to have fled through the town, and after that no one was able to provide me with any useful information. Many saw dogs, but could not swear that any one of them was in fact Sam. Apparently all dogs look the same to people,” he says with an expression that suggests he is unimpressed with humanity's lack of discrimination.

He sags against the bed, drained. “Okay, Cas. Thanks for trying.” He wants to cry, screws up his eyes tightly instead.

There's a cool hand against his forehead, gentle fingers on his eyelids. “We won't give up, Dean. I promise you. We will find him. Sleep now.”

“'kay, Cas.”

He sinks back into sleep, reassured by the weight of the angel's hand resting on his head.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Jerry has never understood the appeal of winter camping. It's cold out, there's snow everywhere, and there's no way to keep warm and dry at all. In fact, Jerry doesn't much like camping, has never met a hunter who did. It must come from knowing all the other creatures that lurk in the shadows in the forest, he thinks. Who would want to spend the night alone in the woods when there are wendigos and shapeshifters and Black Dogs and will-o'-the-wisps and werewolves and dozens of other nasties with fucking huge teeth that are just waiting to tear you apart?

It's not surprising to him, therefore, when he finds the campsite of the latest people to go missing looking as though a whole herd of grizzly bears has rampaged through. He also thinks that grizzlies don't travel in herds, but that's not exactly important now, is it? He kneels amidst the wreckage, the two tents torn into shreds, the remains of the campfire strewn about in the snow, the embers long cold. The packs have exploded all over the place, bloody clothes draped over everything else.

“Looks like a wendigo to me,” he tells the dogs. Zevon has his little yellow felt coat on, because terriers aren't made for this weather, but Dean-o is looking just fine, his thick coat protecting him from the cold, lucky bastard. “Too bad all the tracks are trampled. I never was much good at that part, though. Good thing for me I can compensate in all other areas of life,” he quips, and not for the first time wishes that he either had a human partner, or else that the dogs could better appreciate his sense of humour.

“Well, I've got drag marks leading this way. I think we might actually have enough daylight to catch this thing. What do you say, boys?”

Zevon doesn't say anything, as usual, but Dean-o utters a low, whining growl that smacks of disapproval. Jerry looks over at him, sees him crouched on the ground, ears back, tail low, sniffing at a bloodstained pair of pants.

“What, you don't like my plan? I kind of do, you know. Go in, torch the flesh-eating fucker with my handy flare gun, get out in time to grab a late-night snack at the local diner. How about it? Cheeseburgers all around! My treat. Not that we have a choice, I don't think kibble is legal tender.”  
The dogs don't look impressed, but neither one of them puts up an argument. A thin layer of ice has formed over the snow, and his boots crunch loudly through the crust as he walks. Zevon skids and slides over the surface, and their newest buddy doesn't appear to have too much trouble forging his way ahead. So much for a stealthy approach. Then again, it's not as though he was really counting on the element of surprise, given how wendigos are pretty much perfect hunters. So the best he can do now is rely on speed, and on being smarter than the son of a bitch, which is easier said than done.

At least the drag marks are easy to follow: a thick line through the drifts where the bodies dug furrows in the newly-fallen snow. He follows the trail through the wood, further than he thought it would lead, until finally he stops in his tracks, staring. There's a corpse on the ground, obviously one of the campers, its face gone, flesh shredded, limbs dislocated like a puppet's. He goes down on one knee, checks it automatically for a pulse even though he knows it's useless. This isn't right, and just in case his gut instinct wasn't enough to go on, both dogs are losing their shit right at this moment. Zevon is barking furiously, and Dean-o's hackles are raised, lips drawn back from his teeth in a fearsome snarl, and man that dog is fucking huge. Jerry takes a step back involuntarily, until he sees that even though the dog is facing him, it's not growling at him.

He whirls in time to see a huge black shadow launch itself at him from the tree line. There's a blur of pain and his vision explodes with stars, and the next thing he knows he's rolling on the ground, the sound of snarling and growling loud in his ears. He scrambles, trying to get to his feet, but his limbs aren't working the way they're supposed to, his ears are ringing, and he can't see. There's something in his eyes, sticky and warm, gluing the lids together. All around him all he can hear is roaring and barking and snarling, the ugly collision of warm bodies, the crunch of paws in the snow, the clash of fangs. It's not a wendigo: it's obvious now that the Black Dog has exploded into their midst like the supernatural equivalent of a surgical strike. He hears Zevon barking madly, all rage and defiance hears a shrill yelp, and then it's just the sound of the Black Dog and Dean-o going at it, tooth and claw.

Jerry scrapes the blood out of his eyes with fingers frozen by the snow, gropes for his rifle which has gone skidding just out of reach. He pulls it up to his shoulder, prays that it won't jam after being dropped in the snow and generally abused, thanks every god in the sky that he loaded it with silver rounds (not deadly to wendigo, but more effective than regular rounds), and looks for an opening. The Black Dog outweighs Dean-o by a good sixty pounds, but he'll be damned if the sorry-looking stray isn't putting up a hell of a fight. He's a smart fighter, too, taking advantage of his smaller size and speed to keep the Black Dog off-balance, circling, darting in to slash at it with his fangs as he rushes past it, wheels and comes at it from a different direction, blindingly fast. For a few seconds it almost seems like there are two or three dogs attacking.

“Get out of the way!” he yells, sighting down the rifle barrel, and damned if the dog doesn't listen to him, peeling away and giving him plenty of room to put three bullets in the ugly bastard's skull. He staggers to his feet, lurches over to the body, nudges it with the toe of his boot. “Looks like it's salt 'n' burn time, boys. You did a good job. Good dogs.”

He hears Dean-o whine, turns, and that's when he sees the small yellow bundle lying at the foot of a tree, terribly still. His vision blurs with sudden tears, and he drops to his knees in the snow, his rifle forgotten. He reaches out, brushes the tips of his fingers against Zevon's muzzle, over the yellow felt of his ludicrous winter coat. There's a pool of blood congealing in the snow, turning it into a morass of reddish sludge. He can't see any injuries, and somewhere at the back of his mind it registers that the wound must be on Zevon's other side, the one on which he's lying.

“Aw, Zev,” he mutters, his voice thick. “Buddy.”

There's a soft whine, and Dean nudges his elbow, as though trying to comfort him. Automatically he drops his hand, pats the dog's head.

“You're a good dog,” he manages, wiping his nose with the back of his wrist. “Not as good as Zevon, but you're a good dog, Dean-o. I won't do you the disservice of wishing it was you lying there instead of him.”

He swallows hard, pulls salt and a small container of gasoline out of his pack, lights up the corpse of the Black Dog, and wishes that there was a more violent way of dealing with its sorry carcass, because the fucker just killed his best friend, and salting and burning it feels so fucking inadequate. Dean follows at his heels as he heads back, Zevon's broken body cradled in his arms. He wraps the little dog in a blanket, figures he'll see if one of the nearby towns has a proper pet cemetery (and not one on an old Indian burial ground, or any fucked-up shit like that: Zevon's earned his place in doggy heaven, no sense bringing him back as an abomination), lays him gently at the back of the Winnebago.

They drive west for a while longer, Dean-o settled morosely on the back seat. The van is quiet: Jerry can't even bring himself to play music. He thinks that maybe he'll stick around the town where he buries Zevon, get a proper job. Hunting isn't worth it, not anymore. He's done. Time to settle down do something else.

“What do you think, Dean-o? Think I'm cut out for civilian life? It's nearly Christmas, you know. Maybe it's a sign. Time for a change. Turn over a new leaf, just in time for the new decade.”

In Fairmont he gets a lead on a possible haunting in Fort Dodge —two deaths already— and he knows he can't give it up. Not really. When he turns south, though, he meets with unexpected resistance from Dean-o, who pitches a wild, squalling fit at the back of the van, barking and scratching and making such a fuss that he's forced to pull to the side of the road and let him out.

“What the hell, buddy? Something you ate?” But he knows that's not what this is about. “I suppose you don't want to come with me, do you, Dean-o?” The dog barks, nudges his hand in a gesture that he could almost swear is apologetic. “I should have known. I'm sorry, for what it's worth, but I don't really want another dog after Zevon, either. You don't think I'm an asshole, do you? Leaving you by the side of the road?”

The dog barks again, then turns and takes off down the road without so much as looking back. He waves, can't help but feel that, this time, he's the one being left by the side of the road.

 


	22. Chapter 22

“Boy, I can hear you thinking from over here. Would you quit it already? It ain't like brooding over this is going to make any difference.”

Bobby is surly, probably because it's early in the morning and the coffee isn't ready yet. If it were anyone other than Bobby, Dean would already have told him to cut him some slack because it's damned hard to get around with only one working leg. Of course, that shit doesn't fly with Bobby. So instead he glares at the coffee pot in the hopes that it'll motivate it to percolate faster, hobbles toward the stove, leaning heavily on his crutches. At least he's out of the cast now, is down to one of those things that looks like a space boot, all plastic and velcro and fucking terrible to walk around in, even with forearm crutches. He very definitely does not hit the counter with his fist in frustration: it's more of a determined thump.

“It's been _weeks_ , Bobby,” he says, keeping his voice quiet. Just to prove how not upset he is. Totally not upset. Absolutely in control of his emotions.

“I know. But we ain't giving up yet. We'll find him, no matter how long it takes.”

“I just feel so goddamned useless,” he breaks several eggs savagely into a bowl, and when the yolks burst and leak yellow he grabs a fork to beat them, figures scrambled eggs are just as good as anything. “I can barely move, and the only person who's helping me on this aside from you is Cas. Three of us to find Sam, who's basically unrecognizable, and Cas is the only one who can reliably make it out the front door.” He pours the egg mixture into a pan and stabs viciously at it while it sizzles.

Bobby doesn't say anything, and really, what is there to say? The Winchesters have never exactly been popular among the hunting crowd. God knows their father was a prickly son of a bitch, quick to take offense and even quicker to give it in his single-minded pursuit of the yellow-eyed demon, and of the few friends he made when he was alive, only Bobby and Missouri are left. Daniel Elkins is gone —although whether he'd have helped is anyone's guess— as are Ellen and Pastor Jim. Sam and Dean weren't exactly high on the popularity charts even before they unleashed the apocalypse, and now they can count their allies on the fingers of one hand. Chuck, who's crawled into a bottle and refuses to come out until the apocalypse is over. Rufus, who's God knows where. The rest of their friends are gone: Ellen (she was their friend too, maybe moreso than their father's) and Jo, Pamela and Ash... it seems like wherever he goes, there's a trail of bodies.

“You're brooding again. I swear, you're gettin' louder at it than that brother of yours.”

He scowls. “Eat your breakfast.”

“I know we ain't exactly overwhelmed with offers of support, boy, but you can't let that get you down. Missouri's still keeping an eye out —so to speak— to see if she can figure where Sam might be, and Chuck promised he'd call if he gets anything on the Prophecy Channel he's got going in his head.”

He doesn't answer, but the words hang in the air between them as loudly as if he'd screamed at the top of his lungs. _What if he's already dead?_ He doesn't bother to hide the fact that he doesn't touch his eggs.

The days stretch into weeks, autumn into winter, and soon there's a thick crust of snow accumulating outside that neither of them can get out to shovel. He gets better slowly, excruciatingly slowly, keeps coming down with low-grade fevers that leave him weak and shivering on Bobby's sofa. Still, even those eventually all but cease, and he's able to limp around, first with a pair of forearm crutches that Bobby had stashed away in his basement, and then with a cane as long as it's over short distances. His leg aches and throbs almost constantly as the weather turns colder and damper, but the pain is a welcome distraction from thinking constantly about how he can't even manage to get out the door, let alone look for Sam.

Castiel comes and goes at odd intervals, his erratic presence both reassuring and maddening. He puts up with Dean's mood swings with a lot more patience than Bobby does, and a lot more patience than Dean knows he deserves. Sam would have punched him by now, or forced him to talk about his feelings or whatever touchy-feely shit he'd been reading about lately, and thinking about Sam just makes his chest ache, and thinking about how shittily he's treating Castiel does nothing to improve his temper, either.

“There is no need to apologize,” the angel says to him one evening after he's chased his painkillers with maybe a couple of beers too many and none of it has done anything to dull the ache in his leg. He's snapped and apologized three times already, and his stomach is going sour and he's not nearly buzzed enough for any of this to be worth it. “I understand that you are overwrought.”

“Of course I need to fucking apologize!” he snarls, hanging onto his bottle instead of hurling it across the room the way he wants to. He bets it would smash in a really satisfying way before Bobby rips him a new one for ruining the paint on the far wall. He's sitting on the sofa that's been doubling as his bed, since stairs have been a pretty tricky proposition up until recently and until now hasn't seen a reason to switch. “I'm being an asshole, and I know it and I really wish I had a better handle on all the shit that's coming out of my mouth these days, because it's all landing on you and you're the only person who gives a shit about me anymore and it's not fair. Fuck. I'm not close to drunk enough to be saying shit like this, which just goes to show.”

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“Neither do I, Cas, don't worry about it.” He closes his eyes briefly, but it doesn't help to shut anything out, so he opens them again, finds Castiel looking intently at him, as though he can see right through to his soul. Maybe he can, but the thought isn't a reassuring one.

“I am not worried about it. I am worried about you.”

He laughs bitterly. “Yeah, well, you should worry about Sam.”

“I worry also about Samuel. The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“Cas, are you making fun of me?”

Castiel surprises him by smiling, and it's an odd sight, because before he fell the angel never so much as twitched an eyebrow. It's a small, beautiful thing, which makes his blue eyes dance. “Perhaps a little bit. My intention was not to cause offense.”

“None taken.”

“I know that Samuel's absence is painful for you —and for Bobby.” Cas seems to be searching for words, which isn't like him. “I... miss him too. I will keep looking until I find him. I have already promised you this, and I intend to keep my promise.” He moves to sit beside Dean on the sofa. “You should sleep. Are you in much pain?”

He's asking if he should help, as if Dean isn't feeling guilty enough as it is. “No, it's okay. Nothing I can't handle.”

Cas sighs, which is another thing he never used to do. “Dean...” The inflection on that one word makes him sound so much like Sam that it's like someone sucker-punched him in the solar plexus, and Dean has to choke back a sob that comes at him out of left field. Castiel places a hand on his forearm, gentle, undemanding. “If you do not wish it, then that is all right,” he says, mercifully sounding like himself again, “but I wish you would let me help, in what small ways I still can.”

It's then that he realizes that this might not be entirely about him. Sure, he's been going stir-crazy, stuck in Bobby's house while he recovers from three different surgeries and more infections than you can shake a stick at, hobbling painfully on a broken leg that's taking its sweet time to mend, but he's not the only one here. Not the only one who cares about Sam. Bobby loves the kid like a son ( _and you too_ , a quiet voice in his mind supplies), and even Cas has surprised him with the intensity of his feelings. Up until a couple of months ago, Dean was pretty sure that the angel wasn't Sam Winchester's biggest fan, what with the whole demon blood thing and being Lucifer's vessel and... yeah, everything. But lately, Cas' single-minded search to the exclusion of all else, including his search for God, has him reconsidering that opinion.

So Dean isn't the only one who feels fucking useless and helpless. Castiel is slowly but surely becoming tied to the earth. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing as far as Dean is concerned —all the other angels are A-class douchebags, so becoming more human can't be anything but good in his books— but Cas is showing signs of wear and tear, of frustration. It reminds him a little too much of when Sam was trying to carry all the weight of trying to kill Lilith and avert the apocalypse on his own, his shoulders sagging under an artificial burden. Dean sometimes finds himself wondering just how much more the angel is going to change, how long until he becomes the unrecognizable, broken mess that he met in the future. If that's even going to happen now. He leans back against the sofa, wishes his head was clearer and that he was ten years younger and wasn't able to tell the weather by how much he hurts on a given day.

“You do help, Cas,” he says, knowing it's weak, as reassurances go. He presses his beer bottle against the side of his head, not caring that it's sweating and getting his hair wet. “You're the only one who does.”

“Then let me do so now. Please.”

Castiel doesn't wait for him to say anything —apart from Sam and Bobby, the angel is the only one who's ever managed to figure out stuff about him without his ever having to say a word, never mind that he's always ragging on Cas for being oblivious. So he stays silent and Castiel takes away the bottle he's been holding, gently lifts his legs until he's lying on the sofa, and places a hand on his head. A moment later and the pain is fading, the same way it did that first night when he was in the hospital, half out of his mind with fever and worry for Sam. He doesn't let himself sleep, though.

“It's going to be Christmas soon.”

“Yes.” Cas sounds as though he doesn't understand where he's going with this.

“I haven't spent Christmas without Sam since he was at Stanford.”

Cas' hand moves slightly, smoothing his thumb over his forehead in an oddly soothing motion. “There is still time. We may find him before then.”

“It's nice of you to lie to me.”

“I am not lying. The fact that it is improbable does not make it impossible. You should sleep.”

“I'm not—” he doesn't manage finish his sentence before he feels Cas touch two fingers to his forehead, and barely has time to think _sneaky angel_ before everything goes dark.

 


	23. Chapter 23

In spite of himself, Sam starts to remember things again. It happens when he's on the road, heading toward the setting sun, and can't quite make out which way to head. Going west is one thing, but getting to the exact place he needs to be is another entirely. That takes planning, and thinking, and putting thoughts together in order which isn't something he's able to to do usually. So he lets himself start looking at road signs, deciphering them letter by letter, number by number. Then he tries to hang onto the thoughts in his head that come with the signs, and he has to work really hard to keep them there and to put them all in the right order so that they make sense and tell him what he should do. It's not so bad at first, but the more he does it, the more his head gets fuzzy, the more the world around him goes all swimmy and funny-looking, as though there are things and colours he should be seeing but isn't, and he doesn't understand why that is.

The roads stretch out before him, and there's not much to do except simply walk, head down and tail dragging. That strange sense of Other that's with him almost constantly now tells him he ought to know how much time has gone by since he started looking for Dean, but he doesn't really understand what that means. Time is something the Other-Sam understands, finds important, even, but he can't wrap his mind around it. He knows that Other-Sam is really him, too, but it's easier to think of him as Other-Sam, because otherwise Other-Sam thinks too many confusing things. The sun goes up and the sun goes down, and dimly he thinks that that might be related to how time works, that and when the snow starts to fall. At least, Other-Sam seems to think so.

He's starting to get a better idea of which humans he can trust, too. Sometimes he can't help but have to go near them, and so he keeps watch, wary, looks for how they move, how they talk, most importantly how they smell. Some of them smell of sulfur, _wrong-evil-bad_ , but he doesn't go near them, doesn't attack the way he did in the park when Dean was being threatened. They don't appear to notice him one way or the other. Children are safe —and often have some sort of food on them which they are more than happy to share before their parents snatch them away, yelling things about 'strange dogs' and 'dangerous.'

Sometimes humans stop and help him. It doesn't occur to him that they need a reason to, but he's always a bit surprised when they don't try to hurt him. He remembers that people aren't supposed to like him, that there's something terrible about him that should make them shun him. It's a distant, uneasy feeling, and he doesn't like to dwell on it much. Instead he takes advantage of the generosity of the man with the small terrier whose van smells like sweet smoke, as long as they're heading west. The man says something about 'Dean,' and for a joyous moment Sam thinks that maybe he understood, that he's going to take him all the way to Dean, but soon he works out that he was wrong, that the man isn't talking about his Dean at all. He's a bit like Dean, though, and Other-Sam starts talking louder and saying something about the man being _hunter_ , and that makes sense.

They stop and venture into the woods, and because this is his pack for the moment he goes with them, the terrier —Zevon, the man calls him— senses the danger at the same time as him, but the animal whose territory they've invaded is too big and too fast and too strong, and it kills Zevon with one snapping crunch of jaws. Sam is sure that if it weren't for the man and his gun — _rifle-bullets-pain_ — that he would be dead too, and Other-Sam agrees with him. He wants to run, but instead he follows at the man's heels and rides along with him until he stops heading west, because Other-Sam says it'll go faster in the van. He's a good man, but he's not Dean, and Dean is west, and so Sam scratches at the door to the van and barks and howls until the man lets him out to keep going.

He's aware of pain, too. There was that first time he got too close to a gun — _rifle-bullets-pain_ — when he got distracted at the hen house, when the wound in his flank felt like fire and the noise rang in his ears for such a very long time. Other-Sam tells him it was hours, but he's not sure what 'hour' really means. It has something to do with the passage of time, and it makes everything go all jumbled together. There are other kinds of pain, too: pains in his stomach when he can't find food, pain when it's too cold out which makes his joints ache, and there was a terrible clenching pain that started in his chest when he tried swimming across the big lake. The worst was when he stepped on the metal thing —trap, his mind supplies, and he's not sure if it's himself remembering these things or Other-Sam telling him or if there's any difference between the two— and pain flared up his leg, white-hot. He tried to pull his paw out of the thing, but it was closed tight —spring trap, Other-Sam says, sounding smug— and he was trembling with exhaustion and hunger, and there wasn't anyplace to go. Then there was a man who smelled of dog and hay and sweat and goats, and he brought Sam to a woman who smelled of dogs and cats and another woman, and the two women gave him pats and bacon treats and made the terrible pain in his paw feel better. They put a nasty thing on his leg, but then they took it off again, and then when he was feeling better he found a hole in the fence because it was important to _go find Dean_.

The Other-Sam who keeps drifting in and out of his head tells him that can't just crawl under a bush and wait for either death or for the pain to go away when these things happen. He lets the people who come help him: they smell all right, of other dogs and kindness, and there's no sulfur, no trace of fear or anger that he can detect. He has to leave, though. Both he and Other-Sam are agreed on this: he has to find Dean. Dean is home, and home is west. So he goes west. Other-Sam makes him read the signs for South Dakota (he doesn't know what that is, but Other-Sam tells him it's west, and he believes Other-Sam), and he follows the roads, because Other-Sam tells him they're safer than the woods. He stepped in the trap in the woods, and there are no traps on the roads. There's food in the woods, but there are traps. There are no traps on the roads, but there's no food. He doesn't know if Other-Sam is right, but Other-Sam doesn't like it when he questions things too hard.

Other-Sam thinks about things, sometimes, if Sam lets his mind go blank while he's walking. He thinks about things that Sam finds confusing, like blood and 'red,' which Sam doesn't understand because Other-Sam seems to think that 'red' is something they ought to be able to see and he just can't. It's not really there, and he thinks maybe Other-Sam isn't really all there either. But then Other-Sam can put things together in an order which makes sense: he thinks about 'Lucifer,' and Sam remembers that weird scent — _bad-evil-wrong_ — from the cabin, and anxiety twists in his chest. Other-Sam tells him they have to stay away from Lucifer, and keep Dean safe from him, and Sam has never been more on board with a plan in his life. Except that keeping Dean safe means they have to be with Dean, and that means they have to keep going west, no matter how much he hurts, no matter that the nasty stinging stuff on some of the roads cuts into the pads of his paws —salt, Other-Sam tells him, along with explanations Sam doesn't understand about cars and ice— and he leaves copper-smelling streaks on the white snow. 'Red,' Other-Sam says, and Sam still doesn't understand.

Slowly the scenery changes as the snow keeps falling. Gradually the dead grass behind the wooden fences disappears, replaced with vast expanses of white rolling hills. Sometimes the fields are replaced with woods, trees looming over his head and closing off the road like great walls. The sky is filled with clouds broken only by the occasional patch of blue sky ('blue' is something on which he and Other-Sam can agree) and great swirling flocks of ravens ('an unkindness of ravens' Other-Sam supplies, confusingly) that shriek and caw above him. It gets colder and colder, and he has to put his head down and keep his eyes almost completely closed, but he keeps walking, shivering in spite of his thick coat. His leg hurts where the trap closed on it, and he's still stiff on the side where he was shot with the rifle, but the thought of Dean drives him like a goad. _Find-Dean-find-Dean-find-Dean_ regulates the rhythm of his walk, drives him forward into the wind, past the flurries of snow, makes him ignore the cars going by and making terrible honking noises.

Other-Sam takes him right through the towns now, with a new-found sense of urgency. Now there are more people, and men with poles and large looped wires who try to catch him and load him into big grey vans. Other-Sam warns him about them, but he doesn't need the warning: they smell of anger and nervousness, and he wants nothing to do with them. The houses here all have bright lights hung on strings, and sometimes the lights are strung on the trees, too. Other-Sam tells him about them, but he's too tired and too hungry and too cold to make any sense of it. It's bad enough when Other-Sam talks about colours, but when he tries to think about time in that strange way of 'hours' and 'days' and 'weeks' it makes the whole world tilt sideways, and eventually Other-Sam gives up entirely because Sam can't walk and think about that at the same time, and walking is more important.

He arrives at a crossroads just as night is falling, and something in the air tells him that he's close, so close, and the feeling gives him a sudden burst of energy. He tosses his head, picks up his tail, breaks into a loping run, tongue lolling. He's going to see Dean, he knows this with all the joyful exuberance of that first moment when Dean said 'Sam' to him and all pieces of his life fell into place like a burst of song and light, and no matter what Other-Sam says about time, he knows that now he has to hurry. He throws himself forward, barely registering the alien screeching sound further up the road, the familiar sound of a blaring car horn, and then something huge and heavy collides with his shoulder, pain flares up in his side, at once familiar and terrifying, and he goes rolling and tumbling into the frozen ditch by the side of the road.

 


	24. Chapter 24

Castiel often feels as though the new earth is an alien and hostile place. Until he pulled Dean from the Pit nearly two years ago, he hadn't stepped foot on it in over two thousand years. Human beings haven't changed much, in the grand scheme of things, but they have added layers of complexity to their existence that simply weren't there when he last walked the earth. All the taboos have changed subtly, and he is hard-put most of the time to wrap his mind around the idiom of a language that hadn't even been born when he was last here. English in particular is a fluid, idiosyncratic beast, changing so much from region to region that he considers it a minor miracle that all the English-speaking people aren't constantly at war with each other —he remembers the story of the Tower of Babel, and thinks that America may not be far removed from it. There are moments, too, when he thinks that these people are at war with each other, but perhaps haven't realized it.

He tries not to entertain thoughts as dark as these on a regular basis. It was easier when he didn't inhabit a vessel, the fragile body of Jimmy Novak, on which he has such a tenuous hold that he sometimes worries that a gust of wind will sever their fragile bond. He has never felt so weak in all of his existence, and as far as he knows he has existed forever. He is bound by time, now, anchored in the earth, rooted in flesh as surely as a tree is rooted in the soil. Most of the time he manages to retain his faith —faith that he is doing the right thing, faith that he will find God, faith in Dean Winchester, as blasphemous as it sounds. There is little doubt in his mind now that God had some greater purpose in mind for Dean when He ordered him pulled out of Hell, something larger and grander than simply serving as a vessel for an archangel. That Dean himself can't see it speaks volumes, although he sometimes finds himself wishing that Dean would at the very least acknowledge that he has any worth at all.

Castiel clearly remembers seeing Dean's soul in hell amidst the squalor: even tarnished and battered and ripped to shreds, it shone brighter than anything else there, burning with defiance and hatred and self-loathing and love and loyalty. He remembers weeping at the sight before reaching out to grasp him and pull him aloft. There was no submission in Dean even then, only resignation tinged with hope.

Seeing the world through Dean's eyes is at once bewildering, a little frightening, and utterly exhilarating. It's easier now that he's fallen, and the uncertainty sometimes threatens to tear Castiel apart, but he's beginning to understand Dean's doubt and Jimmy Novak's unwavering faith, and even Sam's desperate, clinging hope. It's Sam who causes him the most doubts, who has done so ever since Castiel loosed him from his bonds and allowed him —encouraged him, even— to break the final seal. His regrets are too little, too late, as Dean would say, and perhaps that's why he is so intent on finding him for Dean. Now that he is tethered to the world, Castiel doesn't understand his own motivations as well as he used to, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he now knows that his motivations have always been more complex than he liked to think. His search for Sam and God both feel like a quest of atonement, a search for forgiveness and aid, and the thought is an uncomfortable one, because it also feels as though he is failing in every way that counts.

In spite of this, he feels unexpectedly warmed when Bobby extends a gruff invitation to spend Christmas with him and Dean at his house. Up until recently, he has been under the impression that Bobby merely tolerates him —and grudgingly at best. He allows Castiel to come and go so long as he keeps his 'fool angel wings' to himself, which Castiel interprets as meaning that he is not to touch Bobby's belongings without permission. Come and go he does, to check on Dean's welfare (and Bobby's as well, though it's perhaps not his first concern), because Dean is taking the events of the past few months especially hard. Castiel has never understood his propensity to shoulder the blame for events entirely out of his control, to go into self-destructive spirals because of it. Nothing the angel does can deter Dean from his irrational conviction that he could somehow have prevented Sam's becoming lost. Barring that, he offers what comfort, what consolation he can, and he vows not to stop looking until either Sam is found or the end of the world comes. At this point, it's difficult to say which will come first.

Early on Christmas morning he finds Dean in Bobby's kitchen, a large knife in his hand, methodically chopping up an onion. While Dean still has to use the forearm crutches over longer distances, he has been making a slow but steady recovery since October, and now the crutches are propped in a corner of the kitchen while he limps from one counter to the other. From the looks of things, Castiel guesses that Dean has bought a different kind of food than the customary fare in this house. There is an unfamiliar but undeniably pleasant smell coming from a pot simmering on the stove, and there is a small turkey in a roasting pan on the kitchen table.

Dean doesn't look up from his chopping, uses the corner of his sleeve to wipe tears from his eyes. Castiel doesn't worry about this: he knows all about onions. “Hey, Cas, you made it.”

“I did.”

“Feel like helping? I haven't tried anything like this in years.”

He tilts his head. “All right. What would you like me to do?”

Dean scrapes the chopped onion into a dish, then grabs a bowl full of apples, which he hands to Castiel, along with a paring knife. “Peel these and chop them into slices. Ever have homemade apple pie, Cas?”

“I haven't.”

“Didn't think so. It tastes even better when you've helped make it yourself, trust me.”

“You know how to make pie?”

Dean shrugs, looks a little embarrassed. “Sort of. I made it a couple of times when we were kids and we had a kitchen in one of the places where we stayed. It's been years, so I'm hoping it's like riding a bicycle.”

Castiel has learned that if he asks for clarification about every idiom that comes out of Dean's mouth, they will never discuss anything else, so he files the expression away to look up later. He assumes it has something to do with ability and practice, from the context. They work in comfortable silence, for the most part, interrupting it only when Dean gives him instructions on how to prepare a dish, or when he asks for direction. The morning seems unsuited to idle chatter, although in reality it's a morning like any other, or it should be. He has discussed this with Dean on a previous occasion —just after Bobby extended his invitation, in fact.

“I don't understand why you of all people would choose to celebrate on this day,” he'd said. “You are agnostic, and barely believe in angels even when they stand right before you, let alone in an incarnate deity who sacrificed himself for the good of mankind,” he winces slightly at the irony, but Dean appears not to notice. “Besides, Christmas isn't the real birth of Jesus Christ, but merely a way for the clergy to appropriate earlier pagan solstice festivals in an attempt to—”

“Cas, I know all that,” Dean had held up a hand to forestall him. “Sam,” he'd almost choked on the name, rallied himself. “Sam already gave me this lecture a dozen times over, starting when he was eight and I told him there wasn't a Santa Claus. That's not why I celebrate Christmas, okay? Just come, would you?”

“Of course I will come.”

And that's how he finds himself chopping apples on Christmas morning with Dean, while Bobby starts a fire in the hearth in his little-used living room. Dean has even managed to put up a small evergreen tree decorated with garlands of popcorn and pine cones and paper stars, and the sight is oddly comforting, even though Castiel is all too aware of the tree's darker pagan origins. In the early afternoon they eat the meal that they've prepared, although not all of the dishes are ready at the same time —Dean claims that it's because he's out of practice at timing multiple dishes, and Castiel is inclined to believe him. He doesn't remember seeing Dean cook at all, and the discovery that he is good at it is something of a surprise. Dean catches his expression and gives him a wry grin.

“What? Who do you think did all the cooking when we were kids? Wasn't Dad, that's for sure, and while Spaghetti-O's are okay when you're ten, by the time you get older they're just not all that appetizing anymore. Seriously, they're actually pretty gross.”

He's about to apologize in case he caused offense, realizes it's the wrong reaction, and laughs instead, and feels warmth suffuse him when both Bobby and Dean join in. No one mentions the elephant in the room. They talk around the subject very carefully, like dancers learning a new and intricate choreography, but he can hear the words as clearly as if Dean had spoken them aloud, accusing. _I wish Sam was here._

Later, he feels a sharp stab of disappointment that alcohol has no effect on him as they settle themselves in the living room around the fire with as many beers as Dean can fit into one of Bobby's many “spare” refrigerators. He nurses his beer, because it seems like it's wasted on him, watches as Dean and Bobby teeter on the edge of sobriety, as Bobby becomes more relaxed and Dean withdraws into himself, letting Bobby talk about the past as though it's an old, familiar friend. He stays silent for the most part, interjecting just enough to keep Bobby talking, taking his cue from Dean, and when Dean asks him to stay the night, he does, even going so far as to sleep on the sofa that Dean has relinquished in favour of the guest bedroom upstairs now that he's able to walk on his own again. Not so long ago he would not have needed the sleep at all, and even now it's not entirely necessary, but it's a more pleasant experience than he would have imagined.

When he sleeps now, he dreams of finding God, and he's filled with awe.

 


	25. Chapter 25

Castiel surprises himself by staying at Bobby's even longer than a day, barely needing the encouragement from Dean. “You've been looking non-stop since October, Cas. I know you know I'm grateful, but you look like a goddamned ghost, and I refuse to salt and burn the guy who rescued me from hell,” he says, rolling his eyes. “At this point, a couple of days off isn't going to make a difference. I'm almost back to normal: we'll look for Sam together after this, okay?”

He nods stiffly. “Very well.”

Underneath the stoic mask, he can feel Dean seething with impatience, burning with the desire to be out, moving, doing something, anything at all, and because he understands it all too well he forces himself to be calm as well. They set an example for each other as the days stretch toward the New Year. Another artificial ritual, but this one Castiel understands better, the symbolic chance at starting over, the chance at redemption. Outside the snow continues to fall as it has been doing steadily since early in the month: a record snowfall, Dean tells him the weather reports are saying. Another sign of the End Times, he replies, or global warming. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, Dean tells him.

Dean drinks too much on New Year's Eve, while Bobby manages to stay mostly sober, and Castiel ends up dragging his wayward charge up the stairs and putting him to bed, even submitting with a very unangelic eyeroll (another habit he's picked up from the Winchesters, he realizes belatedly, and likely not a good one) when Dean keeps a death grip on his shirt and tugs insistently. He lies next to Dean and watches him until he all but passes out, sinking into sleep like a stone; Castiel allows himself a moment of wonder before he too falls asleep, one hand resting protectively on Dean's chest.

They're awakened by the sound of barking. Or, rather, by the sound of Bobby's dog Rumsfeld “losing his shit,” as Dean so eloquently puts it. Dean is alert and out of bed in seconds, snatching the clothes Castiel stripped from him the night before off the chair and pulling them on as he hurries down the stairs as fast as his injured leg will allow, shoves his feet into his boots and grabs the shotgun Bobby keeps by the door. Out of pure habit he motions to Castiel —who has followed close on his heels— to stay back, as though somehow it's his responsibility to keep the angel safe instead of the other way around. Castiel can hear the quiet squeak of Bobby's wheelchair a few paces behind him as Dean throws open the front door, shotgun at the ready.

“Dean, let me—” he starts, but Dean ignores him, his boots crunching in the icy snow as he goes out in search of the commotion.

It's not difficult to spot Rumsfeld: he's a large, sturdy Rottweiler, all huge slavering jaws and giant paws. He's currently at the far end of the salvage yard, barking wildly, his whole attitude one of aggression directed at whoever or whatever is attempting to trespass on his territory. Dean advances cautiously, his customary grace somewhat lacking in part due to the snow, in part because of the limp that accompanies his every move these days. He's about halfway across the yard when Castiel sees him put down the shotgun with a yell that can't be mistaken for anything other than joy.

“Sam!”

The 'intruder' needs no further invitation. There's a blur of movement, and a huge black shadow hurtles past the bewildered Rumsfeld and barrels across the remaining distance while Dean struggles through the snow. A great dog launches itself at Dean's chest, knocks him over, and the two of them roll over several times in a tangle of limbs.

Castiel doesn't bother trying to navigate the snow, simply allows himself to be next to them in the blink of an eye, signalling to Rumsfeld with one hand to 'sit.' Dean is clinging to Sam, laughing, incoherent with joy, petting the dog and running both hands down his whole body, as though he can't touch him enough to prove to himself that he's real. Castiel isn't surprised to see tears streaming down his face.

“Oh, God, you came back. You came back! God, Sam... I thought... God. Sam, Sam, Sam,” he buries his face in the dog's fur. “Sammy. Jesus, Sam, I can't believe it. I can't. God. Sammy.”

It's a mantra, a prayer, an exultation, and in the meantime both Dean and the dog are getting soaked through. The dog doesn't seem to care, whining happily and wriggling in Dean's arms; licking his hands, his face, any part of him that he leaves exposed too long. Dean doesn't seem to have noticed the fact that his clothing is wet through. He's too busy failing not to have hysterics. There's no point in trying to interrupt, and to do so almost seems like an intrusion, so Castiel waits just long enough for the initial shock to wear off, then bends down and puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezes gently.

“We should bring Samuel inside.”

Dean nods, scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve, makes a visible effort to pull himself together. “Yeah, okay. Okay, Cas.” He struggles upright in the snow. “Come on, Sammy. Let's go see Bobby.”

He tries to get up, and his bad leg buckles under him. Wordlessly Castiel bends again, grasps him firmly by the arm and pulls him to his feet, and Dean acknowledges the help with a nod that from anyone else would have been a heartfelt thanks. He looks back at the distance separating him from the house with a look bordering on despair, allows himself to lean on Castiel and limp back, all the adrenaline from before gone in the blink of an eye. The dog struggles to its feet too, and they notice the same thing simultaneously. Dean stops in his tracks.

“Shit, Cas, he's hurt!” He turns back, catches Sam around the neck with his arms. “Hey, Sammy-boy,” he says softly. “Why didn't you say something, huh?”

“I thought dogs were not capable of speech?”

“I didn't mean literally, Cas,” Dean says without any malice, entirely focused on Sam. He's running his hands over the dog again, this time checking for injuries. “We have to get him inside so I can check him out properly. Or maybe Bobby can check him out, he's got more experience.” There's a yelp as his hands probe a sensitive spot. “Sorry, buddy. Can you walk?” He lets Castiel pull him to his feet again. “Heel, Sammy.”

The dog follows slowly, limping so badly it seems barely able to walk. Whatever surge of adrenaline allowed Sam to get this far, it has clearly run its course. The dog struggles on gamely, his whole attention concentrated on Dean, hazel eyes filled with adoration. Castiel thinks he knows how he feels. He only caught a glimpse of Sam after his initial transformation, but the creature is a far cry from the beautiful animal he'd seen sprawled lazily on Dean's motel room bed: his coat is matted and torn, a nasty-looking cut on his muzzle, and he looks painfully thin, as though suffering from months of deprivation. Which is probably the case, he realizes. There is no explanation for how Sam was able to come this far, alone and seemingly on foot. Dean keeps twisting in his grip to look back over his shoulder, as though unable to believe his own eyes, as though if he turns away for too long Sam might vanish and never return.

Bobby is waiting at the front door, his wheelchair parked just inside the stood, bewilderment and joy warring for precedence on his features. He pulls back to let them in, hands Dean his crutches while Castiel turns to usher Sam into the house. The dog nudges him in a friendly fashion, then licks his hand with a quiet whine. He's surprised: Sam has never before shown any indication that he does anything more than tolerate Castiel's presence. He reaches out tentatively, strokes the dog's head, and receives another swipe of a warm, wet tongue on his fingers.

“Is —is that?” Bobby is staring at the dog, which is straining now to follow Dean past the wheelchair and into the house.

Dean's voice is thick, his words choked as though he's about to start crying again and trying not to. “Yeah. Yeah, it's Sam. I... Bobby, you know more about dogs than I do. Can you... can you see what's wrong with him?”

That seems to shake Bobby out of his stupor. “Of course, boy. Bring 'im in, we'll take a look. In the kitchen. Put a tarp over the table first, keep him from slidin' off.”

Castiel throws himself into the newest task with as much energy as he's put into anything lately. He finds a tarp thanks to Bobby's directions, all but forces Dean into a a chair next to the table, and lifts Sam in his arms to deposit him on the tarp. To his relief, no one including the dog argues or resists, and Bobby wheels himself up close to perform his examination.

“Looks like he's been through a hell of a lot,” the older man grunts, then shoves at Sam's muzzle as the dog tries to lick his face with a grateful whine. “Quit that, confounded mutt! I'm tryin' to work here. Yeah, yeah, I love ya too, ya big goof, now quit it!” He starts probing at the more obvious injuries, takes note of the lacerations and newly-healed scars on the pads of Sam's feet. “He musta walked here. All that way,” he marvels. “I don't know how that's even possible.”

“A miracle,” Castiel says, hoping it's true.

Dean snorts, but the sound lacks his usual derisive conviction. The dog —Sam, he reminds himself, but it's so difficult to reconcile his knowledge of Sam-the-human with this pathetic creature— lets his head drop onto the table, eyes closing with a contented sigh. It's then that he's able to see just how much the animal is suffering, his breathing laboured and shallow. Miracle or no, Sam may well have been pushed past the point of endurance. Dean digs his hands into Sam's fur.

“He'll be okay, right Bobby?”

Bobby clears his throat.

“Castiel, hand me a phone, wouldja? I got a friend in town who's a vet. She looks after Rumsfeld for me. Maybe she'll be able to help 'im.”

Castiel does as he's told, lets one hand drop to Dean's shoulder in a vain attempt to bring comfort, and unthinkingly Dean reaches up and squeezes his hand in wordless thanks.

“He'll be fine, Cas. You'll see.”

 


	26. Chapter 26

Castiel is no stranger to doubt. He remembers his first experience with this all-too-human emotion the way most humans remember their first kiss: a tentative, longing exploration, chaste at first, and then hungry, grasping, greedy. He's almost used to it by now, but there are days when he feels as though he might be crushed under its weight, and today is one of those days. It's ironic, because it's the first day of the New Year, and isn't that when life is supposed to be filled with the promise of a new start? It's on days like this that he wishes he'd never heard of irony. It's such a human thing to experience —yet another reminder of all his failings. He's beginning to understand how Dean feels a lot of the time, although Dean takes on many things that don't belong on his shoulders to begin with.

The veterinarian has been and gone, and the grim set of her mouth spoke more eloquently than all of her cautious statements about fluids and rest. Castiel is well-versed in seeing how humans lie to each other and to themselves to see that she thinks that there isn't any hope to be had, and that it would be more merciful to euthanize this poor dog —put it out of its misery. She doesn't say anything like that to Dean, who hasn't so much as moved an inch away from Sam's side since they first brought him in. It's obvious that, whatever she has to say, he doesn't want to hear it. She doesn't know the dog is Sam, of course, and that there can be no entertaining of such thoughts, not for any of them. All she sees is an animal that is suffering beyond what animals are usually required to endure for the sake of their owners, and she very clearly thinks they are being selfish for prolonging his suffering. There is no doubt in her mind that Sam is going to die. She leaves without a backward glance, the snow churning beneath the tires of her slush-streaked truck.

By the time the evening rolls around Dean is exhausted —Castiel can see it in the lines of pain that etch themselves around his eyes and mouth— starts running another low-grade fever, and so Castiel doesn't hesitate to put him to sleep with a gentle touch. He's unashamed now to “cheat” in whatever way he can to make sure Dean doesn't make himself so ill again that he puts himself at risk. It's something he learned from observing Sam, before he was a dog: Sam doesn't have the same tools and tricks as an angel (even one with diminished powers) but he cheerfully admitted once to Castiel that he would cheat in whatever way was necessary to keep Dean as healthy and as sane as he could be under the circumstances. In Sam's case, that usually means resorting to blackmail or bribery or else to some subtle form of emotional manipulation which Castiel has yet to master: he suspects that twenty-six years of being Dean's brother has a lot to do with it.

Sam the dog is lying on the carpet next to Bobby's fireplace, half-covered in a woolen blanket, and Castiel lowers himself to the floor, cross-legged, to keep vigil. Dean is dead to the world thanks to him, and he feels dimly as though he owes it to his charge to watch over Sam, at least for a little while, just in case. Sam sighs, and Castiel finds that his disconcerting hazel eyes are fixed on him with the same intent look that he had for Dean earlier, a look filled, he's surprised to see, with love. The dog inches forward, painfully, and rests its muzzle on his knee, and he lets one hand drop to caress its head. Sam's fur is soft, and he runs his fingers through it, marvelling at the differences in texture he can feel there, at the infinite variety that can be found even in such a small thing as this. There is trust in this creature that puts him to shame, and he feels an odd constricting sensation in his chest —something else to bring him a little closer to humanity, to an emotion he doesn't really understand. He thinks it may be guilt.

“I am sorry, Samuel,” he says softly. “I think I may have failed you from the beginning. I will try to make this right. Stay here with Dean, and I will try to find my brother.”

Finding Gabriel is almost as difficult as finding God. He suspects that, like God, Gabriel will only be found if he wants it, but luckily for Castiel the archangel-in-hiding is not as adamant about staying missing. He finds him sitting on a huge boulder overlooking a lake. He thinks this may be Canada, that the rock may be a part of the Canadian Shield. It doesn't mean much to Castiel —the earth is the earth, and human demarcations are incidental and fleeting— but he remembers Samuel talking to Dean about it at some point before Dean made a great show of dying of boredom, and somehow the small bits of trivia just stayed in his mind. Gabriel is wearing a green shirt that reminds Castiel a bit of the colour of Dean's eyes. In fact, his chosen style of dress today is considerably less flashy than that to which Castiel has become accustomed.

“Hello, little brother,” Gabriel doesn't turn around. “I see you found me.”

“You wanted to be found,” Castiel points out, not that it's necessary.

“Guilty.” The word seems overly charged, even for the situation at hand. Suddenly there's a beer in Gabriel's hand, a case at his feet. “Want a drink?”

“I don't feel the effects of alcohol,” he says, and feels another strange clenching sensation in his chest, thinking about the night he spent with Ellen discovering just that.

“Don't be obtuse, little brother. For one, it tastes good. For another thing, you can feel whatever you allow yourself to feel. And for a third, humour me, and have one.”

He shrugs, takes a beer, feels the bottle sweating against the palm of his hand, and climbs up to sit next to Gabriel on the boulder. He pulls the cap off, raises it the way Sam and Dean do, and to his surprise Gabriel clinks the neck of his bottle against it. “To your health,” Castiel says, and surprises himself by meaning it. Gabriel laughs.

“ _Slainte mhath_ , little brother,” he agrees, and tilts the contents into his mouth. “I suppose you're here to ask me to reverse my little trick with Sam Winchester.”

“Yes.”

“Took you long enough. I was beginning to think you had all decided to keep him that way. Or maybe you're just more stubborn than I thought.”

The beer is slightly bitter, fizzes on his tongue. It's different than the alcohol Ellen gave him, which made his tongue curl in his mouth and his throat burn, and doesn't taste quite the same as the beer Dean gave him at Christmas. “We didn't know where he was, after Lucifer nearly killed Dean. I thought my energies would be better spent searching for him than for you. If he was dead, there would be little point to your changing him back.”

He senses that he's surprised the archangel. Gabriel turns to look at him. “What?”

“You weren't aware.” It's not a question. “Sam and Dean have not been together since October, when Lucifer laid a trap for them. Dean has been incapacitated up until recently, is still recovering. And Sam... went missing. In his current form, he could not ask for assistance, could not stay with his brother as he might have otherwise.”

“Huh. Now that's a twist I wasn't expecting.”

Castiel is learning a lot about human emotion these days, but anger is a new one for him. He stays very still —wrath is still one of the deadly sins, and Gabriel can swat him like a fly if he so chooses. There is every reason to hold onto his temper, now. “I believe you may not have thought through all of the repercussions of your actions,” he says, keeping his tone mild.

To his surprise, Gabriel breaks into a laugh. “Now there's an understatement. I can see why Dean keeps you around, why Lucifer is so keen on getting you to switch sides.” He looks over, tilts his head, and for a moment Castiel feels as though he's looking into a mirror, sees an odd expression on Gabriel's face —as though Castiel is some vastly unknowable enigma that he's trying to understand. “Castiel, you're a true believer, aren't you? Do you know, I think you're the only angel out there still looking for our Father.”

He doesn't answer the implied question, poses one of his own. “How is it that you, who have seen the face of God, have no faith?”

He gets a derisive snort in response. “David asked me that once.”

“Who?”

“My vessel. Don't you ever kick back and have a chat with Jimmy Novak? That's his name, isn't it? The guy with the cheap suit and the poorly-fitting trench coat?”

“My vessel is dead. He sacrificed himself for his family. So, no.”

Gabriel winces, and Castiel senses genuine sympathy when he says, “I'm sorry.”

“So am I.”

“David's a good guy. He was a janitor, and I kept up with his job for a while at his request, until they found someone to replace him. He takes his responsibilities seriously.”

“He is unlike you, then.”

“ _Touché_. Let me tell you, Cas —can I call you that? Being a vessel sucks. I've heard it from the horse's mouth. Being a vessel to an archangel sucks even more. If your Jimmy hadn't died, you would be able to leave his body and let him go back to his life. But David, well... you've seen what happened to Raphael's vessel, right? We ride humans harder than the demons do. I like David. Most angels never bother to ask their vessels their opinion about what they do with their bodies after they say the big 'yes,' you know. We purposefully leave out the fine print at the bottom of the contract, that says we can do whatever we damned well please once we're behind the wheel.”

Castiel doesn't say anything, because it's true.

“I like to think that I'm not as big of an asshole as the rest of our brethren. Or, at least, not a hypocrite. Yeah, sure, I've decided to become Switzerland in this really shitty world war thing we're doing, but I decided to ask David a long time ago if he was on board with not being involved anymore. He's a devout man, you know. Jewish, as it happens, but it's not like there aren't lots of midrashim about angels, so he didn't have too much difficulty wrapping his mind around the notion of an archangel. Once I told him the way things really were, though, he went along easily enough with the new plan, so long as I took care of his dog for him.”

Castiel finishes off his beer, Jimmy Novak's words echoing in his mind. _You promised to take care of them. You promised, Cas!_ It never occurred to him to ask Jimmy how he felt about any of it, and it's too late now. Another failure at his doorstep. He wonders if Uriel and Zachariah’s vessels feel betrayed. There's no way of telling. “I have never heard of an angel communicating with their vessel once the possession had taken place.”

“I'm not one for following tradition.”

“So I've seen.”

“I expected you to be a lot more self-righteous about this,” Gabriel pulls two more beers from the pack, hands one over, and Castiel doesn't refuse. Time is running out, but it doesn't seem prudent to point this out. Not now.

“Righteousness is overrated.”

“Don't you want to point out all the ways in which I'm wrong about this, and have been playing with the Winchesters like a cruel and capricious god?”

“I believe that you may already know that you are wrong.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You let yourself be found. I believe you may already be reconsidering your actions.”

“They never bother trying to learn the lessons I'm teaching them. If they listened, they might be further ahead now.” Gabriel dodges the issue, again.

“Arrogance is overrated, too,” Castiel says evenly, trying not to show just how afraid he is that his candour is going to get him smote but good, as Dean would say. He's already been on the receiving end of one archangel, and isn't keen on repeating the experience. “Has it not occurred to you that you are trying to teach them the wrong lesson?”

“I'm not wrong about this.”

“I wish I had your certainty.” He deliberately injects irony into his voice. Something else he has learned from Dean.

Gabriel takes another pull of his beer, attempts to deflect the conversation. “You never said how you found Sam.”

“We didn't. He made his way back to us.”

“You're kidding. Alone?” There's genuine surprise in the tone. “How far?”

“He went missing in Michigan, and appears to have walked to Sioux Falls. Approximately eight hundred miles.”

Gabriel whistles. “Cue Roddy McDowall.” Castiel believes himself safe in assuming that this is a cultural reference that he doesn't understand, and lets it slide. “In that case, I should probably leave him a dog a bit longer. They haven't had time to digest my metaphor about the perils of keeping your brother on a short leash.”

“Is that what you believe happened with Lucifer?”

Gabriel gives him a sidelong look. “Everyone underestimates you, don't they?”

“It does happen. You haven't answered my question.”

“Michael tried to reign him in when God asked us to worship humanity,” is the quiet response. “Lucifer didn't take it well.” There's no need to elaborate further on the topic: Castiel knows as much about Lucifer's fall as he ever wants to.

“And so you believe that Dean's actions will precipitate a poor decision on Sam's part?”

“You know as well as I do that that boy can't see straight where his brother is concerned.”

“Which one are you talking about?”

He gets a bark of laughter as a response. “Good point.”

“Sam is ill.”

“I thought that was Dean?” But Castiel isn't fooled by the flippancy of the question.

“If he stays as he is, he is going to die. I —we cannot help him. We need you to undo what you've done. Please.”

“You're using the magic word. Must be serious.”

Castiel shakes his head. “I know you don't care—”

“Not true.”

“Then what will it take for you to change him back? I have nothing to offer you that you would want. I cannot force the Winchesters to say yes, and I have nothing of my own to give,” he adds brokenly. He's never felt so useless in his entire existence. Gabriel chucks him on the shoulder.

“Don't take it so hard, Cas. I don't want anything from you anyway.” He sighs. “I don't know if I should be impressed or depressed that they're not learning anything.”

“They are learning, just not what you think they should learn.”

“And what's that?”

“I'm not sure it's for me to say. I can't presume to teach you, I barely know anything myself. But perhaps you should think about what happened here. Even with his identity reduced to the barest sense of self, Samuel Winchester crossed over eight hundred miles of ground and water to get to his brother —even if it meant dying in the process. That should tell you something.”

“It tells me they don't learn.”

Castiel gets to his feet, brushes off his trench coat. “I am sorry to have wasted your time,” he manages. He's never felt despair before, and he's not certain that that's what is coiling in his stomach, weighing him down like lead. “I will return to my work.”

Gabriel snorts. “Go home, little brother. There isn't enough room here for you, me, and your faith.”

And without so much as a snap of his fingers, he disappears, leaving Castiel alone, faced with his own reflection on the rippling surface of the lake.

 


	27. Chapter 27

When Dean awakens, Castiel is gone. He's not surprised, but he does feel a faint pang of disappointment. He's sort of become used to having the angel around these past few days. The next thing he's aware of is that he feels like utter crap that's been warmed over a few times too many. Awesome. Five minutes outside in the snow and he's sick again, although this time he'll take it, because it's totally worth it to have Sam back. His watch tells him it's two o'clock in the morning, and although he's tempted to just go back to sleep, past experience tells him that he'll hate himself in the morning if he doesn't go to bed. Growing old gracefully isn't something that happens to hunters, obviously. He pushes himself upright, looks around for Sam, finds the dog still asleep on the floor in front of the embers of the fireplace. He gets to his feet, feeling about eighty years old as he tries to get his joints to flex, limps over to Sam, gives him a gentle pat.

“Sammy, wake up. I'm hitting the sack, buddy. You want to come with? You can totally have half the bed. Hell, I'll even give you the pillows. You up to it?”

Sam rouses slowly, but his tail wags, and he makes a valiant attempt to hobble up the stairs behind Dean, who is resolutely not thinking of the vet's admonition to “be realistic” and her recommendation of what the “kindest thing” to do would be. She obviously thought she was being stealthy by talking only to Bobby and Cas, but she had a voice like a foghorn. Sam is going to be just fine, the vet be damned. Except that he almost has to carry Sam up half the stairs, and ends up lifting him onto the bed, feeling every bone in the dog's body as he does it, oddly fragile under the loose skin. He shucks off his clothes, leaves them in a pile on the floor, crawls into the bed beside Sam and slings an arm over him, pulls the blankets on top of them both.

“What does that stupid woman know, anyway? You're gonna be fine, Sammy. It's not her fault she's never dealt with a Winchester before. Doesn't know anything about us.” He gets a half-hearted lick on the nose at that, and chuckles. “See? What'd I tell you? Tomorrow, though, you're going to have to eat. I get that you're tired and not hungry, but you have to eat anyway: can't get better otherwise.”

It's a good thing Sam's a dog, because he'd never be able to get away with this sort of thing if he was human. It's dangerously close to cuddling. It's not, of course, but Sam might think it was, and Dean would never live that down, he thinks sleepily, letting his eyes drift shut. Maybe there are upsides to having Sam like this: it's kind of like having the old Sam back, the kid who used to climb into bed with him after a nightmare, the one who had no compunctions about asking for piggy-back rides, the one who thought Dean was the most awesome thing since sliced bread. Even the kid brother who hated both him and their Dad and was itching to get away to Stanford would be better than the broken-hearted stranger who's been riding shotgun for the past eighteen months, is his last thought before sleep claims him.

A rush of air awakens him, one that he's learned to recognize. He shoves himself up onto one elbow, scrubs at his eyes with his free hand. “Cas, seriously dude, how many times do we have to have that talk about where it is and isn't appropriate to beam in unannounced?” he grumbles. “I'm gonna get you a bell, so help me.” Okay, so the fact that he feels like he might still be running a mild fever and that he has a killer headache might be making him a little crabbier than usual. Automatically he reaches to pull the blanket closer around himself.

“Oh, don't be bashful, Dean. The human body is a beautiful, natural thing.”

Definitely not Cas. Dean bolts upright in bed with a curse, immediately regrets it as pain lances through his skull. He grinds the heel of his hand into his eye socket, wondering if it's actually possible for pain to make his eyes pop out of his head. “Come to gloat?”

“Something like that,” Gabriel agrees, sauntering over to perch on the bed, holds up a hand in a quelling gesture. “Don't get up on my account. Hey, Sammy, how you doing boy?” he reaches out to give Sam a pat, and the traitorous dog pokes his nose out from under the bedclothes and licks the archangel's hand. “You're a lot more tractable as a dog. Isn't he, Dean?”

How can a day be this shitty after only a minute and a half of being awake? “What do you want?”  
Gabriel rolls his eyes. “I don't want anything. Just checking in on our four-legged friend. Looking kind of the worse for wear, isn't he?” he comments, stroking Sam's ears. Sam lets his head sink back onto the bed with a sigh, closes his eyes.

“Thanks to you, douchebag. What'll it take for you to leave us alone?”

“So you don't want my help.”

Dean squints at him. “Are you offering?” Oh, he is so not cut out for this evasive back-and-forth double-talk crap, especially not with that jackhammer going off in his skull. He glances at the clock, sees that even though there's light coming in the window, it's still damned early.

“That's not how I roll.”

He twitches involuntarily at that. He remembers Castiel saying something oh-so-similar in that future which won't ever happen now, and the echo makes him shiver. “They really fucked you in the head, didn't they?” At Gabriel's raised eyebrow he keeps going. “Your family. Man, and I thought I had it bad. You sound like Cas... not this Cas, the other one.”

Gabriel actually looks interested at that. “What other one?”

“The one from the future. He was all fucked in the head and high on every drug known to man —and maybe a couple others besides, what do I know? He said shit like that. 'That's how I roll,' stuff like that.”

“From the future? Sounds like my siblings have been playing more interesting mind games with you than I would have given them credit for,” Gabriel smirks, but his expression seems half-hearted to Dean, even forced.

“Never mind. Jesus, dude, you should hear yourself. What did they do to you?” He's not supposed to feel sympathy for this douchebag. God, maybe he's turning into Sam after all this time. That would explain why Sam seems to have turned into a Dark Side version of him. They're switching places. Terrific.

Gabriel snaps his fingers, an irritated look on his face, and Dean half-expects to find himself somewhere else, maybe a really creepy funhouse or something. “Don't you presume to know anything about me, kiddo.”

“Hey, you're the one popping into my bedroom at the ass-crack of dawn and making nice with my do— brother. If anyone's presuming, it's you. If it's any consolation, I understood the metaphor months ago, and I get it: I'm keeping Sam on too tight a leash. I get it, I swear.”

Gabriel smirks. “But does _he_ get it?”

Dean wants to scream in frustration. “I don't know: he's a _dog_. He can't talk. He just about killed himself trying to get here, though, so I guess maybe he doesn't get it. Doesn't change anything, anyway.”

“You think it doesn't?”

“No.”

“I've known mules less stubborn than the two of you. I don't think you really get it at all.”

“Fine, we don't get it. So why are you here?” Easier to switch topics.

A shrug. “I'm here because Castiel asked me nicely, and I'm a sucker for politeness. Are you sure you want Sam to be human? You gotta admit, he's much happier this way. Tell me that's not what you've been thinking. Tell me you didn't spend half of last night halfway hoping for this.”

He'd kill for a Percocet right now. Or, hell, even Tylenol. He's never hated Gabriel more than at this very moment, for voicing aloud all the traitorous thoughts that have been going through his mind. “It's not right. He's not meant to be like this.”

“How can you know that? I thought you just wanted him to be happy. Well, your wish just came true.”

Dean glances down at the dog's still form, and fondles his ears, can't help but smile as Sam nudges his hand with a tired whine. Then he sighs.“He's not really Sam like this. It's not real.”

“Reality's overrated.”

Dean looks up. “I reject your reality and substitute my own, is that it?”

Gabriel laughs unexpectedly. “I knew I liked you two for a reason!”

“Yeah, well. Look, our reality may suck, but it's ours. Why the hell do you keep messing with us? You already know you're not going to change our minds about saying 'yes.' So what the hell, dude? I don't see what's in this for you. What's your angle?”

There's a pause, during which Gabriel gives him a look that Dean is completely incapable of deciphering, brown eyes glittering dangerously. Before he can react the archangel reaches out with two fingers. He only has time to think _well, shit_ , and everything goes dark.

The first thing he's aware of after that is that Gabriel is gone, and it feels as though someone's turned up the furnace full-blast. Except that that's not Bobby's style —he's all about conserving fuel. It's then that he realizes that he's got his arm over something that's definitely not dog-shaped, which is the source of all the extra heat. He sits up, blinks, isn't quite sure he's not dreaming this. He puts out a hand, feels heat and a too-fast pulse, decides that if he was going to be dreaming Sam back into the world, he definitely wouldn't dream him sick.

“Sam?”

There's no response, no reaction at all to his soft whisper. Sam is out like a light, either unconscious or so deeply asleep he hasn't heard, curled on his side in much the same way he was when he was still a dog. He's so damned thin... Dean swallows hard as his heart threatens to make a getaway through his mouth. There's an angry-looking laceration marring Sam's face, starting just above his eyebrow and traveling down his left cheek to his mouth. Unable to help himself, Dean traces a finger along it gently, feels the tell-tale heat and swelling of infection underneath the skin. Definitely gonna scar. Sam got this as a dog —he remembers seeing the cut on the dog's muzzle the day before, although it didn't seem as bad then.

“Dammit,” he says under his breath. “Fucking douchebag angel could have thrown in some healing for good measure. Sam?” he shakes him by the shoulder. “You can sleep for as long as you like after this, but I need you to wake up for me now. Sam!”

Sam coughs (and damn, but it sounds painful), stirs, rolls away from Dean onto his back, but his eyelashes are fluttering. It takes a moment before his eyes focus, but there's a spark of recognition there. “D-Dean?”

“Welcome back, Sammy,” Dean feels a grin spreading that threatens to split his face in half. Then he all but falls off the bed in his hurry to get the hell out of that room before his brother catches him crying like a girl.

 


	28. Chapter 28

Angelic favours come with lots of caveats and fine print and more strings attached than a kite-flying competition. Not that this comes as a surprise to Dean, but he finds that he'd still been holding out hope that when (if) he got Sam back, he was going to get him back healthy and in one piece. Instead, Sam is in exactly the same condition as he was yesterday: starving, injured and sick. Fucking douchebag angels. He braces himself against the sink, fighting to get his breathing back to normal, eyes squeezed shut. Once he's ducked his head under the cold water faucet for as long as it takes to get himself together, he shakes his head to get rid of the water, and swallows more Tylenol than any sane doctor would ever recommend, wishing he had a shot of whisky to wash it down, just for the hell of it. He heads back to Sam's side with a glass of water and the bottle of pills. He can totally do this. No sweat. Sam's eyes have slipped shut again, but they open almost immediately when he feels the bed shift under Dean's weight.

“Dean?” he asks again, a little uncertainly, as though he thinks he might just be imagining everything. His voice is hoarse, more from disuse than illness, Dean thinks. “'s it you?”

“Yeah, it's me. I'm right here, don't worry. I brought water. Think you can manage some?”

Sam nods, looking dazed. He struggles up to rest on his elbows, then closes his eyes as though even that took a colossal effort, and leans back against the headboard. He's so damned thin, Dean keeps thinking. Emaciated, even. He holds the glass for Sam when he makes no move to take it, presses a couple of the small pills against his lips.

“Okay, small sips. Easy does it.” Sam manages the pills and about half the glass before he chokes on it, coughing. He slumps down again, exhausted, a sheen of sweat covering his face and chest. “You with me, Sammy?”

“Dean.”

Dean chews on his lip, doesn't know what to make of that. “Do you remember anything?”

His brother shakes his head, as though the question is confusing. His throat works for a moment, lips parted. “Black Dog.” He coughs, twists his head away when Dean tries to get him to drink more water.

“Do you remember being a dog?”

Sam gives him a puzzled look, as though he can't quite make sense of what he's just said. “Car.”

“What?”

Sam gets a frustrated look on his face, closes his eyes, looking as though he's trying to concentrate on something. He opens his eyes again, stares at Dean in a way that's thoroughly unnerving. “Hard to think,” he says finally, and Dean fees his stomach twist. He pats Sam's arm, puts a reassuring smile on his face, even while there's a shrill voice shrieking inside his head that this is _bad-bad-bad_.

“Okay, don't worry about it, Sammy. It'll get better. We'll fix this.” He reaches out, hesitates, his hand hovering inches away from Sam. He's not sure if he should touch him anymore, whether this Sam wants to have anything to do with him, although the more rational part of his mind tells him that he's probably safe, that Sammy nearly killed himself trying to come back to him, after all. Still, he's nervous, can't quite bring himself to believe that things might suddenly be different, might suddenly be better after everything that's happened. When he tries to pull back, though, Sam reaches out and closes his large fingers around Dean's hand, keeps staring at him as though he's worried he'll somehow disappear. Dean can feel the rough edges of scars and half-healed cuts on the palm of Sam's hand. His fingernails are shredded at the tips, his fingers scraped bloody and scabbed over.

“Don't go.”

He chews on his lip, thinks he might burst from all the words that are trying to pour out of him all once. He squeezes Sam's hand carefully. “Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. You look like crap, dude. How you feeling?”

A confused blink. “Hurts.” Sam draws a painful-sounding breath. “Dying?”

He reaches out with his free hand, doesn't care about what it might look like anymore, smooths Sam's damp hair away from his forehead. “No,” he says fiercely. “Don't you believe that for a second. No one's dying, you hear me? We're going to fix this, okay?”

“'kay.” Sam actually seems amused, and Dean scrubs at his face with one hand, trying to get his pulse to go back to normal. “Hurts.”

“Yeah, I'll bet. You got yourself pretty beat up there. Did you really walk all that way?”

Sam coughs, nods once. “Home.” Dean feels an incredulous smile spread over his face.

“Holy shit, Sammy,” he breathes. “And I thought you were stubborn when you were human. Hey, hey!” he shakes his brother as his eyes slip shut again. “Stay with me, okay?”

Another nod. “Home,” Sam repeats, but doesn't open his eyes. He's still sweating, shivering now, and Dean can practically see his fever rising.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “Let me check you out, okay Sammy? I want to see what's going on with you now you're back to being you again.” He pulls aside the blankets, ignoring Sam's muted whimper of protest at the cold air, and starts methodically checking him over for injuries. This is familiar territory, at least. He might not know what to do with an injured dog, but he's far too well-versed in fixing up his little brother when he gets hurt.

He finds nothing different than what the vet said of Sam while he was still a dog: broken ribs, a broken leg that looks like it was set and then didn't quite heal properly (they'll have matching limps for the rest of the apocalypse, he thinks wryly, and isn't that a peach?), more contusions and lacerations than he can count —his chest and stomach are mottled black and blue and purple. He's not exactly an expert on malnutrition, but the vet said Sam was starved, and he's inclined to believe her. He thinks he wouldn't have to try too hard to be able to see all of Sam's bones beneath the skin. He doesn't know how to diagnose pneumonia, but from the sound of Sam's laboured breathing he doesn't see any reason to disbelieve the vet on that score either. He wonders briefly if there's any real difference between the antibiotics she prescribed and the kind they give to humans. He's completely out of his depth, but it's not as though he can just check Sam into a hospital —not without running some serious risks, especially after his own little escapade in Chicago. He chews on his lip, watches Sam anxiously for a moment, then shakes him a bit by the shoulder.

“Sam... you're in pretty bad shape, dude. You want me to take you to a hospital? Get you checked out?”

“No,” Sam rasps, and shakes his head. “Wanna stay...”

“You sure? We can figure something out about the whole ID thing. We always do.”

“No,” the tone is insistent. “Home.” He curls up on his side, coughing in a way that makes Dean's chest constrict. “Stay here.” Dean isn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified, but he nods.

“Get some sleep, Sammy. I'll be back. I'm going to go find Bobby, let him know you're you again, otherwise he'll kick my ass, wheelchair or no,” he grins, aiming for a light-hearted tone, but Sam's eyes fly open at that, panic registering on his face.

“Don't leave,” he breathes, reaching out with one hand and trying to sit up again. “Please, Dean.”

“Okay, okay, no one's leaving,” he shifts closer on the edge of the bed, pulls the blankets up protectively, rubs Sam's arm soothingly. “It's okay. Take it easy. I'm not going anywhere.”

He blows out his cheeks, scrubs at his forehead with the back of his wrist, trying not to let Sam's panic infect him as well. After well over a year of having his brother push him away at every opportunity, he's almost forgotten how to deal with Sam wanting him near, which is strange because his brother was a clingy kid growing up, always hanging onto his hand or his arm or his hip. He can't quite remember when that started to change. Sam's eyes close again, although he's clearly fighting to stay awake in spite of the exhaustion, and Dean feels the mild flutter of panic start up again in his chest.

“Sam. Sam, talk to me. You're freaking me out a bit.” He grabs hold of Sam's knee, shakes it a bit.

“'s hard...” Sam turns aside to cough against the back of his wrist, and Dean winces, watching his ribs move under his skin.

“What's hard?”

Sam's face scrunches in concentration. “Talking. Can't... they're all mixed up.” He sounds out of breath.

“Mixed up?”

“Thoughts. Me and Other-Sam. All mixed up.”

Dean bites his lip, isn't sure what to make of that. “We'll have to give it time, maybe,” he offers, finally. “You spent a long time as a dog. D'you remember that?”

“Sort of. Gabriel... remember him.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah. What is it with us and archangels using us for kicks?”

“Douchebag,” Sam agrees tiredly, and Dean surprises himself by tossing his head back and laughing.

“You said it, Sammy... What?” Sam is staring at him again, fever-bright eyes boring through him as though he's trying to see right down into Dean's core. He smiles uncertainly, feeling himself flush much to his annoyance. “A little intense, there, dude. You're going to make me all self-conscious, and you know I hate that.”

It's an obvious effort for his brother to string words together, and it makes his stomach clench a little to see it. Words have always been Sam's tool, much more than Dean's. “You look... sick. You okay?” It's two complete sentences, though, and that's something.

“I'm fine, dude.”

Sam shakes his head again. “Not fine.”

He shrugs, embarrassed. “Yeah, okay, I'm not a hundred percent. Got kind of banged up last time we were together. Do you remember that?”

“I think... ravine?”

Dean nods, relieved. “Yeah, that's right. It was Lucifer, do you remember that?”

“No, I...” a look of understanding flits across Sam's features. “I smelled him. The Other-Sam did. The dog,” he clenches his hand around a fistful of the sheet, obviously frustrated at not being able to express himself more clearly. “Didn't know what it was. He hurt you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did. But you saved me. Do you remember? You pulled me out of the water. That's how we got into this whole mess —how I lost you.”

“Lost,” Sam says, and it sounds like a sigh. “I remember.” Guilt coils in Dean's stomach.

“I'm sorry, man. I didn't know what we were getting into, and I nearly got you killed. I'm sorry, I should have checked it out first, should have been more careful—” he starts, but Sam puts out a hand, wraps it carefully around his wrist.

“Found you,” he says, and smiles. It's the bright, sunny smile that Dean knows, that he remembers: the one reserved for the day Sam first rode a bike without training wheels, for when he got straight As on his report cards, for the first time he pulled Dean aside and sheepishly admitted that he had a crush on Molly Ballantine and needed advice on how to ask her out. It's a smile Dean hasn't seen in years, and he doesn't know whether to laugh or cry now. He settles for smiling back.

“Yeah, you did.”

Sam's grip tightens a bit on his wrist, and he gives an insistent tug, so Dean leans forward, trying to catch whatever it is Sam is trying to say to him.

“What? What is it?”

Sam doesn't answer, but brings up his other hand to lay it on Dean's chest, as though reassuring himself that he's real, that he's really there. He lets his hand travel up, over Dean's shoulders, then his face, tangles his fingers in his hair, and Dean laughs uncertainly and pulls back a bit.

“Okay, getting a bit handsy there, Francis. It's okay, I'm not going anywhere.”

Another tug, and as weak as Sam is he manages to catch him off-balance and topples him onto the bed, pulls him into his arms.

“Hey!” Dean twists a bit, then gives up and lets Sam hold onto him. He tells himself that Sam needs the reassurance, that he's been through a hell of a trauma, and if hanging onto his big brother like a stuffed toy will make him feel better, then that's fine. It's totally not because it feels nice to be wrapped up in Sam's arms —safe and warm, even if Sam is weak as a day-old kitten— totally not because he needs the reassurance just as much as Sam, because he hasn't felt this safe in over three years. That's ridiculous, and anyone who suggests it is going to get their ass kicked. Luckily, there's no one around. He shifts a bit until he's comfortable, shoots Sam a fond look. “You're such a girl.”

Sam keeps smiling, rests his forehead against Dean's shoulder. “Don't care. Missed you.”

His throat tightens unexpectedly. “Yeah. Me too.”

 


	29. Chapter 29

Things are still confusing, even after Sam figures out that he's human again. At first everything comes back in a huge indistinct blur of memories and impressions and scents and sounds and muted colours. Dimly he remembers the sound of screeching brakes and a blaring car horn, the smell of burnt rubber, and there's a sharp pain in his side when he tries to breathe. There was a car —he knows there must have been one— but he can't quite conjure the image in his mind. Someone is shaking him, calling his name, and he forces his eyes open and Dean is there, and joy and relief flood through him, the same way they did yesterday. He remembers being in the snow, the smell of ozone sharp and clear, and Dean yelling for him; remembers trying to run in spite of the pain in his side and his leg, and now he just wants to tell Dean just how much he missed him and wanted him and looked for him, but all that comes out of his mouth is a painful stutter.

It's impossible to make his mind work the way it should, and if he had the breath for it he would scream in frustration. He feels as though he's wrapped in layers of fog that are only just starting to lift. Dean is talking to him, the weight of his hand reassuring, and he can only catch a few words at first. Gradually he starts making more sense of it all, but he's spent so long being the Other-Sam, of taking a back seat and letting the dog dictate what actions to take, that it's all he can do to find a scattering of words to reply to Dean's anxious queries. It doesn't help that his head is throbbing in time with his pulse, that his whole body hurts to some degree, that he's too hot and too cold by turns. Everything seems to be conspiring against him, his body turned traitor. Eventually he simply gives up trying to harness the runaway team of horses in his head, and simply clings to Dean the way a drowning man reaches for driftwood. He takes comfort in the knowledge that, whatever else might be happening, he's home, and that's all that's really important.

He drifts for what seems like a long time. Thoughts and images come and go, and sometimes he's not sure if what he's seeing is really happening or is simply one of the dog's memories intruding on reality. Things like the passage of time didn't mean a lot to him when he was still the dog, and it's difficult to sort through the jumble of memories, to put them back in an order that makes sense to him. Mostly he remembers smells and impressions rather than what he saw, which is confusing at first, but gradually names and faces and even places come into focus, and it stops hurting so much when he tries to form complete sentences in his head. Words come back, and knowledge, and gradually the thoughts of the dog fade away entirely, reabsorb themselves into his consciousness.

Eventually he works out that he's probably ill, and that's why everything hurts and he's constantly alternating between being hot and cold and can't quite pull himself together the way he should. His chest aches, and at times the pain worsens and he folds in on himself, coughing so hard he thinks he might be sick. He's aware of hands against his skin, pressed against his back, rubbing his arm, soothing, reassuring. Voices come and go, murmur around him, and he's sure he knows them. One of the voices belongs to Dean, and he's able for the most part to rouse himself enough to talk a bit, when Dean wants to. It's still hard to sort out which words to use, it gets easier as time goes by, although even as his words come back to him, it gets increasingly difficult to pull himself out of the darkness that tugs at him almost constantly, and after a while it's all he can do to just lie very still and try to breathe, listening to the rise and fall of voices all around.

“Sam, you still with us?”

He tries to answer, wants desperately to reassure Dean that yes, yes he is still there, but he can't make the words come. He feels weighted down by lead. There's pressure on his hand, so he curls his fingers and squeezes back, feels Dean pat his shoulder.

“Hang in there, Sammy. No dying on me now, you hear? After everything, you're not allowed to die because of some stupid bacteria. I won't let you.”

He shakes his head, or tries to, hears another voice chime in.

“You should sleep, Dean.”

“Kind of busy, here.”

“You will do Samuel no good if you make yourself ill again. Go sleep, and I will watch him for you.”

“I don't—”

“Dean, I will put you to sleep if you will not go willingly.”

“Cheater.”

Darkness closes in again, and when it recedes Sam is aware of something cool and damp against his face. It feels wonderful, and instinctively he leans into the touch, is surprised to feel the brush of fingers against his cheek. It's not Dean's hand, callused from years of hunting and keeping the Impala running, but another, soft and delicate, and the voice that speaks to him is equally soft.

“Samuel, are you awake?”

He forces open his eyes, waits until they've adjusted to the dim light. “C-Cas?” His lungs protest at even that small effort, and he struggles to smother a fit of coughing that feels as though it might rip him apart from the inside out.

“Lie still,” comes the gentle admonishment. The angel is looking at him intently, blue eyes bright and serious, a wet washcloth in one hand. He folds it carefully, then reaches over to gently wipe Sam's face. “How are you feeling?”

The words still won't come, so he settles for reaching up and clasping Castiel's wrist before letting his eyes close again, and the angel pauses a moment before resuming what he was doing. Sam doesn't quite sleep, but can't quite rouse himself either, not even when a new, strange voice adds itself to the mix.

“I never figured you for the caretaking type, little brother.” He knows the voice even before Castiel identifies its owner.

“Gabriel,” Castiel's voice is sharp. “Why are you here?”

“Morbid curiosity. I wanted to talk to Sam now that he's got working vocal chords again. I've already had my little heart-to-heart with you and Dean, and it appeals to my sense of order and symmetry.”

“I thought you thrived on chaos.”

“Well, maybe I just want to see what he has to say for himself.”

“You will not have much luck.”

“I can see that. He looks like he went a few too many rounds with a semi.”

“You could remedy that, even if I cannot.”

“You know as well as I do that I have rules to abide by too.”

Sam forces his eyes open, waits for Gabriel's face to swim into focus. The archangel is leaning against the wall by the head of his bed, arms folded over his chest, and he smirks when he catches Sam looking at him.

“I'll be damned. It lives!” He glances over at Castiel, who is glaring at him. Sam's a little surprised: he's never seen the angel express an emotion this intense before, not unless he's staring at Dean, anyway. “You mind giving us some space, little brother?” Gabriel snaps his fingers, and suddenly Castiel is simply gone. Sam struggles to sit up, and fails miserably.

“What'd you do?” The best he can manage is a strangled rasp. Not especially effective at conveying how serious he is.

“Don't worry, he's fine. He's a tough little guy. Takes a lickin', keeps on tickin', as they say. Between the three of you, you've cheated death more times than Wile. E. Coyote.”

Sam flinches at that. It's the same comparison Dean made after the Mystery Spot. That was all Gabriel's doing, too. “You keep... taking him away from me.”

“Who, Dean? Hardly.” Gabriel scoffs. “I'm just helping the process along.”

“Why?” Instantly he wishes the question hadn't come out sounding like a pathetic whimper. He's never exactly in a position of strength when it comes to dealing with Gabriel, but he's never felt quite this exposed and helpless before. It's not exactly reassuring.

“I've already explained this to you, you ass. You just don't get it. Your brother is your weakness, and it'll be the death of you. I mean, case in point,” he gestures with one hand as Sam succumbs to another coughing fit. “Look at the state you're in, and for what? You can live without Dean, you know.”

“I know,” Sam sucks in a painful breath. “Did it before. But I don't want to.”

Gabriel whistles. “Wow. You are way more broken than I thought. You think this is good for you or Dean? You're so wrapped up in each other you can't see straight. There's only so much brotherly love can do for you, you know. You don't need each other the way you think you do.”

Sam manages to turn his head toward him. Every breath feels as though someone is stabbing him in the chest. Gabriel is still staring at him, mouth pressed into a thin line, and it occurs to Sam that he looks angry, of all things. He coughs again, makes an effort to stay focussed.

“No one came.”

Gabriel is taken aback. “What?”

He reaches up unconsciously to press a hand to his sternum. “When you left... no one came after you. Your brothers.”

Gabriel snorts. “Don't try to psychoanalyse me. You're one step away from swinging from the trees, and I existed for thousands of years before psychoanalysis was even a gleam in Freud's eye. You can't fathom this.”

“You wanted them to, though,” Sam presses the point, trying to ignore how out of breath he feels. “Isn't that what families are supposed to do?” His eyes close in spite of himself. “Dean always comes for me... and I'll always come for him. 's how it works. 's why you... keep coming back. You don't... understand why we do it.” He starts to cough again, harder, and this time he feels something tear loose in his chest, tastes copper in his mouth, and he curls in on himself to ward off the pain. If Gabriel says anything else, he doesn't hear it, but a familiar voice does break through the veil that's settled over him.

“What the fuck are you doing? Get away from him!” Sam doesn't have the strength to open his eyes, but when he feels a hand on his forehead he leans into the touch, and Dean rubs his shoulder with his free hand. “Sammy? You okay? Did he hurt you? What'd he do?”

“Don't be so melodramatic. I didn't touch a hair on the precious puppy's head. We were just having a chat.”

“Well, conversation's over. Leave us the hell alone!”

Sam guesses that Gabriel must leave shortly after, because he can't hear his voice anymore, and Dean is clasping his hand, talking soothingly to him. “It's okay, Sammy. He's gone. You just take it easy, okay? Deep breaths. Just... hang on for me, okay? You hear me?”

He manages to nod, squeezes Dean's fingers, and hangs on as hard as he can.

 


	30. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional A/N: This is it, folks, the very last chapter! It's been a heck of a ride, and you have all been absolutely fantastic. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and acted as cheerleaders for me. I couldn't have done it without you. :)
> 
> I am a little sad that this story is over, actually. It's been my constant companion for over a month now. I think I'll be writing a couple of little one-offs to tie up the stories of some of the original characters, since several people have requested that. So, uh, watch this space for further developments on that score.
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for making this a really memorable journey!
> 
> Further To Additional A/N: For those who are interested in the musical aspect of things, I had two songs in particular that I listened to while I was writing this. The first one, not surprisingly, is John Denver's “Take Me Home, Country Roads” (which gave me the title for the story). The other one is The Proclaimer's “I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles).” Mostly because of the chorus, which goes:
> 
>  _And I would walk 500 miles  
>  And I would walk 500 more  
> Just to be the man who walked 1,000 miles  
> To fall down at your door!_
> 
> I thought it was pretty apt.

“Hey, Sammy, look what I got!”

Sam looks up from where he's been lying on the sofa, engrossed in one of Bobby's dust-covered volumes, a blanket thrown over his legs, in time to see Dean chuck a tennis ball at his head. He ducks, and it goes flying over his head and bounces off the wall to go rolling along the floor. Dean throws back his head with a delighted cackle.

“Fetch!”

“Fuck you,” he says without any heat behind the words, ducking his head again before Dean can see him grinning.

“Would you two chuckleheads knock that off?” Bobby calls from his office. “Dean! Boy, you throw one more tennis ball in my house and I'll do some throwin' of my own, you hear me?”

“Sorry, Bobby!”

This time Sam doesn't bother hiding his grin. “Serves you right, jackass.”

“Laugh it up, dog-boy,” Dean scowls, limping after the tennis ball, which has inconveniently lodged itself under a cabinet. “Son of a bitch,” he swears under his breath, lowering himself stiffly to retrieve it, bad leg stretched out at an awkward angle. The tips of his fingers brush against the ball, and he coaxes it back into his hand, rolling it along the floor until he can pick it up. He tosses it gently into the air, catches it again with a look of triumph.

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” Sam puts down the book and coughs painfully into the crook of his elbow, rolls his eyes when he catches Dean's worried glance. “Dude, stop it. I'm fine. Worry about yourself for a change.”

“I'm not the one who nearly died.” Dean settles in a chair, looks like he's about to start bouncing the tennis ball off the wall before remembering Bobby's admonition and tucking it away.

“Actually, you are. Let's not start that conversation again, okay? I'm out of breath enough as it is without having to tally up all your injuries and surgeries just to prove that I'm right. Just... quit worrying.”

Dean snorts. “Right. You need anything?”

“I need for you to quit worrying,” he repeats patiently. “But I guess that's about as likely as Gabriel coming and baking me a pie in order to apologize for being a douchebag.” Sam buries his nose back in his book, only to be interrupted a moment later by Dean's startled yell.

“Gah! Cas! How many times—”

“I apologize if I startled you,” comes the reply, delivered with Castiel's usual equanimity. He's still dressed in the same trench coat and suit he's worn since the day Dean first met him, and Sam wonders if he ever wants to change, if the thought even occurs to him. The angel tilts his head, affords Sam one of his rare, small smiles, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. “Samuel. You are improved.” It's not a question, but Sam treats it as one anyway.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He's almost pathetically grateful for the improvement, in fact. After the initial euphoria of being first reunited with Dean and then turned back into a human, there was a long period during which he felt as though he'd been run over by a steam roller. As if feeling like human roadkill wasn't enough, it had taken days before he was able to sort out his human thoughts from the old dog-thoughts, the ones he'd come to rely on for nearly three months to keep him alive. Every time he tried to open his mouth to talk to Dean, most of what came out was either nonsense or fragments of thoughts that looked as though they frightened his brother more than anything else, which was an exercise in frustration for everyone.

Between the starvation, the pneumonia, and getting hit by a car (he only has dim memories of his last few days as a dog, but he remembers the horn, the smell of burnt rubber, and the cold and damp and pain of lying in the ditch for what seemed like an eternity), the past few weeks have gone by in a blur. He remembers Dean fussing over him, and Castiel coming and going, and feeling like utter crap for the most part. He also remembers resisting every attempt to get him to a hospital, for reasons which aren't entirely clear to him anymore. The only thing that he recalls is that the idea of having Dean being further away than a couple of rooms filled him with a level of panic that's a little embarrassing now, in the clear light of day.

Up until recently he's had almost no strength to do anything except sleep and put up with whatever Dean tries to get him to swallow: pills, water, and some sort of disgusting protein drink which Dean insists he needs in order to get over weeks of malnutrition. The first time he tried to protest —the stuff is too gross for words— his brother pulled out an astounding amount of literature on the subject of starvation and something called 're-feeding syndrome' and glared at him until he gave in.

“What, you think you're the only person capable of research around here? Trust me on this.”

So at this point it's a relief to be able to get around under his own power, although he still gets tired embarrassingly quickly, and he's got a nagging cough which just won't seem to leave him alone no matter what sort of nasty meds Dean forces into him on a regular basis. He's stuck in Bobby's house, limping his way from his bed to the couch and back, and eventually even to the kitchen table. It's not exactly running a marathon, but still, progress is progress, and he's not about to complain, given the alternative.

“I am glad,” Castiel says, and Sam is surprised to see he means it. Then again, a lot about the angel has surprised him of late, not least of which the revelation that he put everything on hold to search for Sam —and not just because he wanted to keep him out of Lucifer's clutches. He kind of wishes that it didn't take getting turned into a dog and nearly dying several times over for him to figure out that Castiel doesn't actively loathe him.

This little adventure has given them all a break from the apocalypse, too; he considers it sort of a silver lining. It's not what he would have chosen, but the enforced rest appears to be doing wonders for Dean, at least, who's managed to get more than two consecutive hours of sleep a night for weeks now, and who hasn't been drinking quite as hard as he was before. It's not as though Sam wasn't aware of the problem —he just never quite figured out how to tackle it, and now he's more than a little relieved at the thought that he won't have to stage some sort of intervention, or watch as Dean drinks himself right onto a liver transplant list. He credits Castiel as much as anything else for this change: the angel has resorted to the all-too-human tactics of blackmailing Dean into taking care of himself, or else threatening to use what few powers he has left to simply force him to sleep. Sam is just grateful that someone else is looking out for his brother; his own efforts of late haven't done any good at all, which is a whole other source of frustration (as though there wasn't enough of that to go around already).

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?” Dean's asking Castiel, and the angel makes a small gesture that Sam isn't sure how to interpret. “I thought you'd be all about chasing after God, after your little hiatus.”

“I was merely checking to see that you were both well.”

Dean smiles up at him from where he's sitting. “Oh, we're good. I mean, it's not exactly the-hills-are-alive-with-the-sound-of-music around here, but I think we're good. No demons, no devil, no monsters to speak of, and you're the only angel for miles.”

 _Huh_ , Sam thinks to himself, watching his brother banter easily with Castiel. _Now that's interesting_. Castiel turns to him, as though aware of being watched.

“And what do you make of your brother's assessment?”

Sam half-shrugs, makes a face that suggests he's a little surprised at agreeing with Dean. “I think he's onto something there. All things considered, we're doing more than okay. You staying for dinner?” he surprises himself even more by asking, sees the surprise mirrored back at him from both men. Dean makes a face, obviously trying to cover up his surprise.

“You think you can get away with inviting people over just because I do all the cooking around here?”

“Do you really want me to cook? Because I will.” It's a bluff. They both know he can't stay standing up long enough to cook a whole meal, but Dean relaxes and laughs at the joke.

“God, no! You're the only person I know who can wreck pasta.”

Sam spreads his palms. “Well, then.”

“You're doing the dishes. Cas'll help.”

He grins. “Fair enough.”

Castiel watches them argue, and for once doesn't seem to be worried that he appears to be the direct cause of the argument. Sam thinks he may be getting used to them after all, especially after the angel pulls up a chair and sits in it without being prompted by Dean. Watching Castiel make himself at home, Sam isn't sure whether the sight makes him happy that he's finally becoming more comfortable around them, or sad because he's losing that indefinable something that made him who he was before. A little of both, maybe, because that's the best any of them can ever manage these days: everything good comes with a price, and they can count themselves lucky when the price isn't too steep.

He starts coughing again before his thoughts can turn too dark, almost as though his body is trying to save him from himself. He feels a hand at his back, and when he gets his breath back he finds a glass of water hovering in front of him, which he accepts with a grateful nod. Dean ruffles his hair as though he's a little kid again, and his hand lingers for perhaps a little longer than is strictly necessary, checking for fever. For once Sam doesn't really have the heart to tell him to knock it off.

“You okay, Sammy? Need another blanket?”

“No, I'm fine. It's just a residual cough, you know that.” They've had this conversation more times than Sam can count, too. If Sam needed any motivation to finish convalescing, it would be to get Dean to stop hovering like a solicitous stealth helicopter, appearing out of nowhere with glasses of water or a thermometer or whatever else. Sam is beginning to have a greater appreciation for why his brother bitches constantly about his mother-henning whenever Dean is sick: it's exhausting.

“Yeah, sure. How about you take a nap, and Cas and I'll start dinner? Cas, you with me?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Sure.” It was Sam's intention to help, but all of a sudden it's all he can do to keep his eyes open. Well, he did promise to do the dishes, so maybe he's not totally useless. He settles back against the sofa cushions, his book forgotten, and feels rather than sees Dean pull the blanket over his shoulders. He lets his thoughts drift for a while, smiles to himself as he hears Castiel's voice coming from the kitchen.

“I believe we should bake a pie. We have not had any since Christmas. Why is that?”

“It's a lot of work, that's why.”

“Should we not have any, in that case?”

“That's not what I said. It's just... you bake pies for special occasions.”

“Does this not count?”

There's a snort of amusement. “Sure, I suppose this counts.”

Sam falls asleep to the sound of clinking cutlery, mingled voices, and Dean's laughter.

 

 

  
**The End**   



End file.
